


In Your Memory

by Johnlockian221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression, Amnesia, Angst, Child Abuse, F/M, M/M, Mutilation, Rape, Retrograde Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 14:43:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2232837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlockian221B/pseuds/Johnlockian221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case goes terribly wrong, rendering Sherlock with both Retrograde Amnesia and an odd form of Age Regression. I don't know if I'll add a plot, or if I'll just add ficlets. Not sure yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags! If I need to add more, let me know. I'm a new author, so I'd appreciate comments and such. I've not got a beta, so sorry for all the mistakes. I've been doing my best, but school's started, so I doubt it will be updated often.

Forever In Your Memory

Prolog

  
The sky was dark; the bright sun having long since set. It still contained a slight blue to the dark inky black, the moon hanging high over head and bathing the night in it's warm light. He'd waited for this, this perfect time.

His feet slid silently over the floor, pushing into his shoes. Left off to the side as though tossed there carelessly, though he'd planted them there. The blue dressing gown fell off his shoulders, revealing the suit hidden underneath. Tugging on his coat and scarf from where they were always left, he was ready to go. Each step down the stairs was without a sound, and he safely disappeared into a cab.

The directions were given carelessly, though he bit them out quickly. A tip, he said, would be given if they were there within ten minutes. He'd be dropped off nearly a block away from his destination, though that's what he'd wished. There was no need for someone to know where he was. He'd waited almost three days for this perfect moment; no one was going to mess it up for him.

The cabbie dropped him off as planned, and unconsciously his hand managed to flip his collars up. His face was hidden, body staying to the shadows. Tonight was the night. Nothing could go wrong. He wouldn't let anything go wrong.

No one really truly knew what these people were; they were a mixture of everything. They raped and branded children. They mutilated them, and Sherlock couldn't stand another day of it. It was different if it was a ring. It was different if it was an organisation. But doing it simply for.... _doing_ _it_...that made everything so much more worse. It had to be tonight.

He didn't understand it, at first. What did it matter, anyways? He had demanded when the case first started. Everyone should be happier. Rings and organisations were impossible to disassemble. They would be easy to catch.

_They_ meaning what he had thought was four people.

He'd never been so wrong in his life.

His mobile buzzed irritably against his leg. Damn, he'd forgotten to turn the stupid thing off. He tugged it out, meaning to turn it off immediately; but the text blinking out at him called for his attention.

Going without me? JW

The man's face clouded. He was suppose to have been asleep. This was dangerous, dangerous enough that he hadn't wanted the good doctor to come. He didn't want the man hurt. He'd managed to get the identities of the men, and it seemed they were much more than what he'd thought. They were part of a network, alright. Though one he had thought he'd taken down long ago...His answer was instant.

Go, John. SH  
It isn't safe for you. SH

Warm breath brushed his neck. "Good, then. Seems to be your specialty. All the better, then." John whispered, trembling in the bitter cold.

As much as he wanted to be angry with John, he found he simply couldn't be. He could only feel a vague relief, his best friend and soldier at his side once again. His mouth opened to express this, though he was immediately cut off by the man.

"Sherlock Holmes, you never leave me behind again, got it? Hm?" He sniffed before continuing, one finger pointing towards him. "Don't you dare tell me to leave or some shit story you cock, because I'll--" This time, it was Sherlock who cut the doctor off.

"I was simply going to say thank you."

At first, John looked confused. He stared at Sherlock and blinked, studying him. "Say again?" He repeated, brows raising, causing the detective to look irritated. "Thank you," he repeated. "Now let's go. The game is on, John."

"God, you just thanked me. At least I think you did. Didn't know you knew the words."

"Shut up, John."

It took them a few moments to go over the plan. When it was safe, they walked towards the warehouse. It faced the water, and they'd be going into the door nearest to the water. John wasn't too fond in going through the water and having wet shoes, but it was a small pain for something that would be so great.

Both men slid into a safe crouch behind some boxes, listening and waiting. John had his gun, held like a man at war. Like an expert. Sherlock could see the glint in his eyes, the excitement building. The pure joy in the suspense and hunt. He knew his eyes would hold a similar look, and he loved it. They both needed it, got off on it.

He loved the thrill, the gamble of the dice. Life, or death. Live or die. Getting to prove again and again how clever and brilliant he was. Hearing John's praise and sarcastic worry. Not a freak or a psychopath, not a druggie or loser, but _brilliant_.

Everything was so rare now that John married. This...this was amazing. To have it be like they used to. As though Mary never came. The baby wasn't due in a few months. His life at the moment faded away. It was John and himself and the case. The high.

A loud, high pitched scream echoed the air. A child, a young child in pain. Female, if he could hear right. Before Sherlock could protest and grab him, John was running on his feet. Bloody hell, bloody hell, what was the man thinking?

Sherlock followed immediately, running after the man and shouting. _Danger. Danger, dang_ _erdangerdanger...._ his mind screamed at him. _Save John Watson. SaveJOHNSaveJohnsaveJOHN. JOHN._

It wasn't a child. It was a recording, a trap. It was something from a film to make them reveal themselves. And John would know when he came face to face with the small mannequin, the scream playing on loop. He would know when the gun was aimed at his forehead.

He would know when the bullet left it's chamber.

Everything slowed down, and Sherlock fought to think.

Two choices. He only had two choices, didn't he? Let John be shot, and finish the case. Save any more kids from being hurt. Let John be hurt and possibly loose him. Save John, let them go. Possibly die in the process. Save John, or save the case. Case, or John. Children or John....but...he had a child.

There was only one choice.

It was like gambling, life or death. Live or die. Showing how brilliant he was. He'd only thought there was four people....

It was like gambling. When you gamble, sometimes you loose.

Win some, loose some. Save a life, loose your own.

Reality came back, and Sherlock found himself pushing John out of the way. He was shouting, but Sherlock couldn't hear it.  _Save John. Save John..._ He felt the bullet connect, and blood begin to slide down his face. It was warm and wet, getting into his ear and hair. He couldn't see. 

Molly bent down in front of him, eyes hard. "It only takes five minutes for someone to bleed out; maybe longer. John is a good doctor; he can keep you alive for a bit. But how long until the paramedics come?"

He only grunted in pain, mind spinning. Molly grabbed his face. "Fifteen minutes." She answered herself. "It'll take fifteen minutes for them to come." 

Around him, the mind palace was crumbling. He forced himself to his feet, using the wall as a support. Pillars and doors gave out, the walls falling down around him. He clenched his teeth in pain, looking around for something,  _anything._ Everything was leaving, breaking and bringing his memories with them. He couldn't hear John shouting, pleading with him. Threatening him, begging him to stay alive. 

Down the corridor, Redbeard barked and whined. He crawled towards him, every throb in his head bringing down another wall. He flinched and tried to shield himself from the debris, though he was hit with it anyways. With every hit, another part of him was lost to the world. He bent, pressing his forehead to the dog's. His words echoed John's as he clutched his childhood friend. "Don't leave me," he begged, stroking the soft fur. "Don't leave me. Please..." He clutched his dog tightly, feeling his mind collapse and crush him. 

Blackness, and confusion. Black. 

It was like gambling. When you gamble, sometimes you loose.


	2. It's Not Your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People don't understand the impact they have on people. They don't know how one word can stay with you, how much someone struggles through life. How one pitied look can make someone feel hopeless. Sherlock knows all about it. He lives with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support guys! I don't know when I'll update next. I'll do my best to post soon, though. Comments are always appreciated. If you have any ideas you'd like in the story, please share them! 
> 
> Also, note, Sherlock /IS/ going to get OOC a bit. This is because he is technically not the Sherlock Holmes we know on the show. I'm going to try and keep him as close to BBC's Sherlock as I can, but don't get upset if he isn't exactly like him. Thanks and sorry!

Chapter One: It's Not Your Fault

He never asked to be different. It wasn't his fault, they always told him. Though....he knew that it was. Of course it was. He couldn't have always been like this, couldn't he? John wasn't like this...no one else was. Just him. Something had to have happened, he just had to think of what.

He'd read John's blog (though he had trouble figuring out the words sometimes) and from what it said, he _had_ been different. Very different. Not like this...but he wasn't like John or Greg (Gavin? George?) either. He was still different. He talked like other people did, using slightly bigger words. Meaner ones too. He never said nice things, and he...well, people didn't like him. He could see why. John and Mary liked him now (didn't they?) and Greg like him a little, he thought. Why hadn't he called him Greg? Why just....Lestrade? 

He couldn't remember anything before he was like this. He remembered waking up in the hospital and....that was it. John had helped him remember some things, and the Doctors helped him remember basic things. John and Mary. His name, where he lived. How to talk and eventually how to walk. Everyone still panicked when he tried to walk for himself (his head was still tender; any little bump could cause serious damage and a disabling pain for Sherlock) and Sherlock's feet weren't exactly sturdy. He had a small walker that he had painted, placed stickers on and coloured that he used, but he hated using it in public.

In fact, he hated public period. He often refused to go out, hating the shops and anything else that required human interaction. People stared and whispered when they walked by, talking about a 'Consulting Detective' and 'That Case'. Most whispered their pities when they walked away, just enough for him to hear. He tried to play with other children, but their mothers or fathers always ushered them away.

They had stopped going to the park after a woman had blown up on him for playing with her daughter. They were both playing in the sandbox, and it was hot out. Sherlock was hot, so he'd taken off the coat John had given him. The little girl, Ana, had wanted hers off too. Sherlock had tried to help her, but Ana's mum hadn't liked that. She had come over, shouting at him and calling him a 'pedophile' and 'molester'. When John came running over, shouting right back at the other woman, she had told him that " _Retards belong in centers and hospitals. My child shouldn't be exposed to..... **that**_." On the way home, Sherlock had asked what she had called him as he struggled to hold back tears.  
John said it didn't matter. They hadn't been back since.

At night, he would cry out and scream. His limbs would thrash out, hitting invisible things. The man's hands would claw at his head, sometimes leaving his curls sticky with blood, his finger nails red and broken. When he woke up, John's hands gripping his own, he couldn't remember why he was so upset. His head throbbed and pounded, making it hard to think straight. Everyone always said it wasn't his fault. It wasn't _ever_ his fault. It was always 'things happen, Sherlock'.

But..something had to have happened for this to happen. It had to be _someone's_ fault.

"Sherlock?" A soft, gentle voice called. The man glanced up from where he was staring at his menu, lost in thought. His plush bee was clutched tightly in his hand (something that he had begun to use as his crutch in public), the head flopped to the side and arms spread in different directions. The waitress was standing politely next to them, one hand holding a pad of paper, a pen held above it. "Do you both need more time for drinks?" She asked softly, not unkindly. Her hair was breaded and pinned in a fashionable bun, the dark copper colour glinting in the sun. 

_Single mummy. Two...no, three kitties. Orange, white, black maybe. Baby girl, autism? Half-way home._

"Ugh..." he started, cheeks tinting to a light pink. Mary offered a reassuring smile. "Would you like some chocolate milk? Some juice?" Sherlock's eyes cast down, cheeks darkening even more "Juice."

The waitress took her chance. "Apple, orange, mixed berry, tropical fusion, one of our..."

"I think he'll just have some chocolate milk." Mary reached over, gently patting his knee. Sherlock could feel eyes on him, and his entire face burned. Why did they have to go out to eat? He hated it. He fiddled with his bee to try and not think about it, stroking the soft body.

"Want to colour why we wait? John's told me you've been getting better with holding your pencil crayons and normal crayons. That's good, hey?" Sherlock shrugged quietly. It wasn't that big a deal. Though he might as well, it wasn't as though he had anything better to do until she came back. Mary would order for him. He'd eat anything, really.

"Ohtay." He muttered.

Mary offered an encouraging smile. "There we go, Sherlock. I brought your pirate one."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Mary, that's the hard one." Why would she bring that one? It was fine for at the flat, that was where they worked on his rehabilitation the most. He was most comfortable there, and could concentrate the most. He didn't want these people to see him struggle.

"Oh, come on. It's a challenge." She insisted. "I want you to show me how well you've gotten, yeah? How 'bout it?"

"Mary, it's stupid," he bit out. "Why you not bring mine bee one?"

The woman ignored his poor grammar, knowing that correcting him would only upset him further, and that they'd likely not get their meal before they had to leave because Sherlock's meltdown. Things like that were better saved for at home. "For the same reason you want it," She explained. "It isn't hard, or complicated. I know you can colour in it. I want to see if you can colour in this one."

Sherlock glared, angry at her cleverness. "You is dumb, Mary." He said simply. She grinned, hugging him before reaching to pull it out. "There's my boy! Care to do an experiment since I _dared_ to make you do more work than strictly necessary?"

Saying nothing, the curly haired man reached for the book and flipped through it, searching for an easy picture. The waitress came and Mary ordered, though the waitress glanced over at Sherlock quietly. 

Everything blurred together after that. Mary suggested Sherlock try and use both crayons and pencil crayons on his picture, using one for the outline, the other to colour. Or using one for textures and one for solid things. The pirate ended up looking quite amazing, and Sherlock had told her he would give it to John. Both had agreed he'd like it after a long day of work.

Once they had eaten, they went out for groceries. Sherlock helped, getting the milk and pushing the buttons on the chip and pin machine. Mary smiled, praising him happily. It wasn't until they had reached the parking lot that they encountered a problem.

  
A woman and a man were waiting outside, the woman crying hysterically. Her eyes were red rimmed, as though she'd been crying for a very, very long time. She clutched a small bear in her hands, like it was going to be torn from her.

_Mother...child deceased?_

"You!" The man snapped, pointing at Sherlock. "You're the reason he died, you sick bastard. You could've saved him, but you let him die. You let him die, just to save some man. You ignorant prick! He was just a boy. He hadn't even started school, and you let them get away with it!"

"Hey!" Mary snapped, pulling Sherlock behind her, as though that would keep their words from hurting and confusing him. "Leave him alone. He saved a man, and it ain't his fault your child died." She took his hand, trying to guide Sherlock away from them. "Leave him alone." She rubbed his back, leading him quietly to their vehicle as the man shouted profanities at their retreating forms. 

"Ignore them, sweetheart. They don't know what they're talking about."

"Ohtay, Mary."

"Why don't we get you a new film tonight, Sherlock? I think John said there was a bee one in the store near the clinic."

"Ohtay, Mary."

*                            *                         *

  
"Is he alright?"

"Confused, if anything. Upset, too, I think. It wasn't the best day he's had. Been almost silent since we got home."

"I'll talk to him. Just phone Greg, will you? He'll talk to Mycroft. Hopefully they'll end up without a couple years in prison. I'd give him a good broken nose, though. People've got no common sense."

Despite their hushed tone, Sherlock heard every word. He didn't understand it, but he heard it. It didn't make him feel better in anyway. He could hear how tired John was, the sniff in which meant he was ready to snap something in half. The man was exhausted and still ready to crush someone's skull for Sherlock. Even with all that, when he came to sit beside Sherlock, he'd be smiling, trying to push everything off as alright.

That's exactly what happened.

"You've had quite the day, hey mate?" John teased, gently bumping shoulder's with Sherlock as he sank into his chair. "Look at you, all comfortable. Blanket, cup and bee." He smiled, though it didn't quite meet his eyes. Sherlock could see the stress lines etched on his face, the crows feet that appeared when he smiled like that. The dark circles under his eyes that seemed to weigh down his whole face.

"Yeah," Sherlock said softly, eyes traveling back to the flickering screen. John's eyes remained watching him, as he'd known they would. "I saw the drawing you did for me. You've got to sign it, so when you become a famous artist, I can say I got an original." Sherlock didn't answer, knowing John was trying to be nice. He still coloured out of the lines a bit. It wasn't good, and it was no where near being a famous artist. Not someone who got children killed and hurt. 

The flat slid into silence. After a few minutes, Sherlock couldn't handle it anymore. "Bed?" he asked, surprising both Mary and John. "Sherlock....it's only eight thirty." She protested lightly. "You don't need to go to bed yet...it's early."

"I want ta."

Both of them exchanged a look that was etched with concern and sadness. "Sherlock...are you sure? Do you jus' not want to watch the film anymore? We can do something else if you'd like." John suggested, sitting up. "We just thought you'd enjoy it."

"I wanna go ah bed."

"To bed," Mary corrected softly, though it wasn't really the time to be correcting him. His cheeks darkened. "Please," he repeated, watching both Watson's faces fall slightly. Sherlock almost never said please. It was the one part of him that had remained like his old self. John got to his feet with a heavy grunt, scrubbing his face with hands. "Alright, Sherl. Let's get you to bed, then."

Sherlock rubbed his temples with a small whine. "Mine head hurts too." John nodded sympathetically, reaching to rub his back gently. "I'll get you some medicine, then. Do you think you'll have a bad night tonight?" 

"Mhm." 

"Alright. I'll sleep with you then. Mary's been having trouble sleeping; the baby's been kickin pretty bad." 

"Oh. Sorree."

"It's not your fault, Sherl."

"It always my fault, John. It always is. Because....because I'm stupid. I'm 'tarted."

He glanced at Mary and she nodded, hurrying to the phone.

"Mycroft Holmes, please. Yes, it's urgant. Tell him it's about his brother." 


	3. A little domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes for a little brotherly visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long and this chapter is so short. I've been so busy. I'm busy Mon-Frid essentially. I don't normally get home until 6:30 or 8, which I use for homework. I'll try and update next week or so. Not sure yet. But there will be an update!

Chapter Two: A Little Domestic 

His words seemed to hit the Watson's like an icy blast. Mary looked shocked, quick and hurrying to the phone. John simply stared at him, eyes widening before his face hardened in determination. "No, you're not." He said firmly, nose wrinkling slightly. "You're not. You understand me, Sherlock? You are sick. _Sick_ , not that." He shook his head, hands clenching into frustrated and angry fists. "You are not _dumb_ , you're the farthest from it. You're brilliant, don't tell me you're not." He studied him for a moment. "You knew, didn't you? Why the mother you saw today was sad. Before either of them said anything."

He didn't answer, starting to turn and walk away.

"Sherlock Holmes, don't you _dare_." He snapped. "Don't you do this, not now. Do you have any idea what you've just said?"

He ignored him, continuing on, feet dragging uselessly on the floor. He had to get away. he didn't want to fight. Not only did he really not understand everything, but it always made his chest feel tight and awful. His temples would throb to the point where he wanted to sob, and John would be grumpy and upset the rest of the day. He didn't want that.  
Tomorrow was John's day off. John promised that they could have fun tomorrow, and Sherlock had made sure he had behaved all day so he could do everything with John. He didn't want to be bad and have to be punished and loose something potentially fun to do. Last time, he had the morgue taken away. Molly had even phoned to say that someone had fourth degree burns for him to look at. God, something so rare, so interesting....but he had said something rude to a woman at Tesco and embarrassed everyone. John had taken the morgue away in an instant, especially when Sherlock started to shout other not so nice things at him.

Since then, he just stayed quiet about what he saw. He didn't mean to be rude. He just _saw_ it...what was the problem in that? He hadn't done anything wrong. Though everyone seemed to think so. Mycroft assured him that it was normal and he was fine...but if Mycroft said it was normal and fine, he knew it was wrong for certain.  
"You is calling My!" He shouted at him, given up on walking and simply bracing himself against the wall. "Why does I need to know? He will tells me an makes mine heads hurt, an' then makes me go ah the doctor." He rubbed his eyes furiously. "I not need ah know, acause you will tells me. You will tells me why I is not dumb and 'tarted because you tink so. It not matters what I think." He wrinkled his nose.

The whole flat was silent. John's mouth opened, then shut. His jaw clenched and he sniffed, and Sherlock instantly took a step back. Mary placed an arm on his shoulder, squeezing it. "Couch." The war captain ordered. "Don't move." Sherlock slowly slid on to the sofa, stretching his long limbs out and pressing his fingers to his lips. Bee was carefully resting on his chest, and according to Sherlock, was sleeping. He hushed John and Mary whenever they spoke louder than a whisper, glaring at them as he curled his toes and stroked his blanket, bringing it between his hands so he could feel the silk move between his fingertips.

He supposed it wasn't that bad if Mycroft came over. Mycroft always brought toys and treats, especially when it was something like this. If he sat and pretended to listen to the man, he'd be given them. It was a simple enough task. He just had to tune him out and think of something else until Mycroft was done talking. Then maybe he could visit Mummy and Da. That was his favourite thing to do, making any of his black moods better. Mycroft also knew that's how he got Sherlock's attention.It wasn't nice, but it did the trick.

Sherlock didn't know how long he lied there. Long enough for Mycroft to come. Mary and John had both tried to speak to him, to assure him that he wasn't an idiot. He either ignored them, or shouted at them, screaming profanities and proof at how incredibly stupid, dull and boring he was. John almost seemed thankful when Mycroft arrived. Sherlock had rolled over, curled towards the back of the couch.

"Brother mine," the government man greeted cooly, reaching to tenderly touch the man's shoulder. "May we speak, please? John tells me you've been quite distraught as of late." Sherlock didn't answer, tugging Bee and his blanket closer to his chest. The older Holmes sighed. "Sherlock, please do not be difficult. Do you understand that we all work very hard to make you feel better? Mary should not be doing all the things she does, because of the baby. The baby can get hurt, and yet she continues to do the things you enjoy despite the risks." He sighed and scrubbed his face. "You can still deduce, can you not? Can you see things about people others cant?"

Sherlock shrugged, rubbing Bee's back soothingly. "Shhh." He murmured. "He sleeping."

Mycroft's eyes were sad, feature's softening. "My apologies," he answered, voice quiet. "I wasn't aware of that fact. May we continue our conversation, Sherlock?" 

"Mhm." He agreed. The elder Holmes nodded. "Are you able to answer my question?" Sherlock hesitated. "John says it not nice." He answered eventually. Mycroft nodded, umbrella tapping against the floor affectionately. "Of course. I simply wished to know because that means you are quite the brilliant man, Sherlock. You aren't dumb, or retarted." He took his hand. "Your body is broken, brother mine. Not your mind." He squeezed it gently before letting go. "You are quite unique." 

The government man nodded at John. "Mummy asked if you would join us at the beach tomorrow. Not the big one, our private one. Would you like that?"  
Sherlock's face lit excitedly, eyes brightening. " _Yes!_ "


	4. Vanishing of the Bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for a good old family gathering :)

Chapter Three: Vanishing Bees

  
"John, we is there yet?"

There was a sigh from the front of the vehicle, and Mary gently reached to place her hand on his shoulder. "No, Sherlock, we aren't there yet. We're not any closer than when you asked ten minutes ago." John answered, hands clenching on the steering wheel. Sherlock frowned, glancing out the window again. "Oh. Ohtay, John." He mumbled, voice suddenly gone quiet. His gaze fell downwards, fiddling with Bee, who was wearing a small knitted jumper Mrs. Hudson had made him.

It was cold this morning, so Mary and Mycroft (who had phoned) had promised they'd go swimming tomorrow. He still wanted to go to the beach; he wanted to take the crabs to inspect and gather some of the sand for an experiment. Mycroft had suggested to collect some shells as well, and that he and Mummy would help with the experiment. He'd wanted to compare different sand and dirt and rocks, and it'd be good to get different opinions, he decided. After telling Mycroft that yes, he and Mummy could help with the experiment, he asked when they were going. Everyone said after he had eaten, napped and done one math sheet. Things hadn't exactly gone as planned after that.

Sherlock had refused breakfast (as he normally does), and John had told him he had to eat it, otherwise they weren't going. Mary had tried to explain that it was a bit harsh for him, considering before this had happened, Sherlock hadn't ate anything. John had remained insistant, and everything spiraled into a fight. After five bites, Sherlock had claimed he was finished. John said otherwise, and the plate ended up on the floor broken into tiny pieces. Mary panicked, telling both of them not to move encase either got cut. 

Already upset, Sherlock had attempted to hide his tears in his arms, whispering apologies. John had quietly apologized as well, telling Sherlock he was out of line. After that, things had gone well for a while. John had helped Mary clean up, and then they played. Some trains, a puzzle, then some building blocks. It wasn't long before it was time for a nap. John and Mary had announced it, having watched Sherlock's movements become slower and more tired.

Sherlock had refused to nap, trying to tell Mary and John he wasn't tired. After what had almost turned into a fight, Sherlock had agreed that he would lie in his bed and try to sleep, if they put a show on his telly. Reluctantly they had agreed, turning on one of Sherlock's favourite documentaries; Vanishing of the Bees. With Bee put into his pijamas (Sherlock had gotten them from John for his birthday) and his Tabbie (his periodic table blanket; another gift from John) tucked beside him, he had contently lied down with his movie. He had slept for nearly a half hour, but stayed in his room for a good hour and a half, simply watching his movie over again. He came out when it was finished, grinning happily.

After Sherlock had gone to bathroom with John, Mary made him a snack and he started work on his maths sheet. He was on subtractions, and was doing quite well. John had showed him how to draw the bubbles with things inside, making everything easier. "If Sammy has seven pies, and Dean eats five of them, how many pies will Sammy have?" Sherlock whispered under his breath. "Draw the pies, then cross out the ones Dean ate," John explained, sitting across from him at the table. Sherlock hesitated before starting to cross them out, grinning at John. "Two!" He said happily. Patting his back, John nodded stood. "Good job, mate. Now let's go and get your things, hm? Mary's packed your clothes, but you need to pack your bag for the car. Let's get everything."

*                                                        *                                                                   *

Sherlock got bored in the car. He didn't want his books he packed, he didn't want to colour. No, he didn't want to watch a film. No he didn't want to play. He wanted to go to the beach. But it was raining and windy, so they couldn't get shells and crabs and sand. Mycroft said he would collect the sand before they arrived, so Sherlock could still do a bit of his experiment. But the sand was wet, so it wouldn't work. He would have to wet the sand he brought from home with rain from home, which he couldn't get.

Things weren't very exciting anymore.

"Sherlock, we're almost there. Do you just want to go to sleep for now? I can put your seat down a bit, love, and you can sleep. I brought a pillow and blanket just encase." Mary suggested. Sherlock hesitated before nodding. "Ohtay, Mary." At least John wouldn't get mad because he was asking how close they were anymore. John pulled over so Mary could get out and help Sherlock put his seat back, placing a pillow behind his head, and a blanket around him. "Alright, Sherlock. Just rest and I'll wake you up when we get there." She whispered, kissing his forehead.

"Ohtay, Mary."

*                                                        *                                                              *

When Sherlock woke up, he was in a bed. It looked like his bed at Mummy's house, the walls a light purple with window next to the bed. There was a desplayed Leggo Town on a dresser on the far wall, where a mirror hung overtop, making the mini-city look endless. Sherlock smiled, standing and going to start playing with it. He started to move the tiny men about the city, making up stories as he played.

He hadn't heard Mycroft come in, standing silently in the doorway as he watched his brother, a man in his thirties, sitting and playing carelessly with Leggo. His eyes were sad, remembering when Sherlock had demanded that Mummy take the childish thing down. That he wouldn't step into the room with such an idiotic thing within it. Now it was one of his favourite things about coming to Mummy's.

Clearing his throat, Mycroft watched as Sherlock turned. The man smiled, springing up to hug him tightly. "Mycroft, come, come look!" He urged, bending to carefully pick up his airplane he had build, holding it up proudly. "Look. Bee and me built it." The government man smiled tiredly. "Of course. It's quite lovely, Sherlock. Is it something for your city, or simply for your own enjoyment?"

"My city. I'm putting it on the helicopter pad, My."

"Of course. That's quite clever, Sherlock."

"Ta, My'coft."

"Would you care to join us for dinner?"

"I not hung'y, but I come."

"Thank you, Sherlock. We've all missed your company."

Sherlock was lead out to the kitchen, where Mummy Holmes was bustling about preparing dinner. "Mummy!" Sherlock said happily, arms opening. The woman turned around, smiling at her youngest son. "Oh, my love, good morning." She cooed, embracing him tightly. "I'm so happy your awake." Mycroft sighed as he began to set the table, shaking his head. "It's evening, mummy, and you act as though he would never wake up."

The man was fixed with an angry glare before Mummy Holmes turned back to Sherlock. "Oh, my love. Dinner's nearly ready. Why don't you and Bee sit down, and I'll start getting your food?"

"I not hung'y, Mummy, but I'll eat some."

"There's my good boy."

Supper went off without a complaint. Sherlock ate two helpings, thanking Mummy for the good supper. Everyone seemed happy and content, sitting and talking together as a family. No one seemed to remember that Sherlock wasn't Sherlock, laughing and teasing as a proper family, the horrific incident that tore them all apart forgotten.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT? You're updating so soon? It must be a miracle! What is this? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I've managed to get the next chapter completed, just because I don't know when I can update next. Do enjoy! And if there's anything you'd like to see happen, please drop me a message in the comments or on my tumblr. (sherlockianh) Till the next chapter!


	5. Of Baby Names and Tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes more and more interested in Mary's baby, and wants to name it himself. Laughter ensues, and slow-minded Sherlock ends up with tongues.

Chapter Four: Of Baby Names and Tongues

The beach did wonders on everyone. The next day brought sun and skies, as well as smiles from the whole family. Sherlock spent the day at the beach with everyone, as well as the weeks that passed. He was able to do his experiment properly, and made it his job to tell everyone about it. John's temper had seemed to cool; he spent most of his time either being with Sherlock, or sitting quietly and watching the landscape as he nursed his tea. He would look almost sad and longing, but the look would leave as soon as Mary or Sherlock came around.

Everyone was more than a little upset when they had to return home. Though, they had promised Sherlock that they would return whenever they could. That promise was kept, and they went whenever a bad day arose. Mostly, when Sherlock had his doctor's appointments. The doctor's caused him to be stressed and anxious, moody and upset. The only one who was allowed to go with him was John. No one really knew _why_ , just that it was always him that went. John did his best not to lose his temper, though it was certainly well tried the entire time. Sherlock mostly coloured or played on his mobile (something that he was allowed on rare occasions; he had a tendency to ring people up, or to text people accidentally).

When they went to the beach...it was like a fresh start. A wave rolling over, erasing all the bad memories and the hurt feelings.

Sherlock got better. He was able to walk and move more easily on his own. Much to everyone's delight, he could use the loo by himself. Bath was something that was still tricky, but at least now they could leave him alone with the door slightly ajar for a few moments before they had to wash his hair and such. His mind got better as well. Addition and subtraction were long forgotten. He was at a year seven level now.

Mary's stomach was growing, accommodating for the new arrival. This, Sherlock found _incredibly_ fascinating. He found every part of Mary's pregnancy the most amazing thing. Her cravings, her mood swings (though he got upset when she did, because no one seemed to know why she was upset. So he would make John help him to make Apology Tea, though he didn't really know why he was apologizing. But it seemed right to him), and her constant bathroom visits. He begged and pleaded to do experiments concerning it, but John was dead against it. Mary, on the other hand, found it endearing.

That was how the Baby Journal emerged. Sherlock wrote down _everything_ concerning the baby in a small notebook he and Mary had gotten. It was a nice, light orange with a giraffe and bees on the front. He wrote letters, things he felt concerned with or interesting in there. He wrote about how Mary felt, or how John felt. He wrote about how shocked he was when he felt the baby kick. He had admitted to crying, because he was so confused at first, didn't understand it. Then John had showed him pictures and videos and he understood, and constantly had his hands on Mary so he could feel for the baby inside her stomach.

"John?" He had said gently, ear pressed carefully to Mary's stomach, listening to the baby move around. The doctor had glanced up from his book and tea for a moment before his head fell down, as though a weight forced it. "Yes, Sherlock? Something new happen?"

"No....but Sherlock is a girl's name."

Both John and Mary laughed, causing Sherlock to frown and sit up. "I'm a pretty lady!" That only seemed to make them laugh harder.

Sherlock grew agitated, face turning red to the tips of his ears. They had long known that Mary was having a girl, and they'd spent the last few days coming up with names. "Sherlock..." Mary assured, hand resting on his shoulder. "We're not laughing at you. We're not. It's just that you're a boy...that's all. We'll think about it, alright?" She smiled, rubbing his back. Sulking, Sherlock leaned back and cuddled with his blanket. "Ohtay, Mary." he mumbled.

"Cheer up, Sher," John added. "Your brother is coming to see us tomorrow. I think you'll spend the day with Lestrade or Molly, how does that sound? I'm sure it doesn't matter. You'll end up with some body part by the end of the day. That's something you haven't had in a while."

That seemed to cheer Sherlock right up. "Can it be tongues, John? I want tongues. I want to see--" He was cut off. "Alright, I'll text them, okay? I'd rather not know what you're going to do with them. As long as it doesn't wreck anything or blow up, it's free game. Now, let's get your pajamas on so we can--"

Sherlock was already on his feet, dashing towards his room. He really, _really_ wanted those tongues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayy! Finally got something done. :) It's a bit late but....I was busy okay? Birthday things, my friends, Birthday things. Just FYI I'm going to have a lot of angst in the next chapter. Not sure how much Sherlock's going to be in it, I know for the first part it's just going to be the Watsons, Mycroft, with a bit of Sherlock. Anyways, thanks for the support. I really, REALLY appreciate it. If you have anything, anything you want me to fit in here, please don't hesitate to send me an ask on tumblr (sherlockian.tumblr.com), or just leave a comment. I'll always try to fit it in!!


	6. Being Dumb and Uncareful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes over to talk to John about the space issue, things don't end well.

Chapter Five: Being Dumb and Uncareful

Mycroft arrived early the next day. Sherlock was still sleeping, having stayed up watching Blues Clues the night previous. Not that anyone minded; it was Mary that normally heard Sherlock wake up, and Mary that got up with him. John would come down later and complain that she hadn't woke him up, and Sherlock would grumble at how grumpy John was. Mary needed her rest, so it was John who answered the door for the government man.

The elder Holmes greeted John politely, nodding when he was asked if he wanted tea. "Three sugar, no cream if you would." He said contently, sitting in his brother's chair with his umbrella resting at his side. He thanked John when he was handing the tea, taking a small sip. "You always make such lovely tea, John. I do see why my brother favors your making it, rather than himself." He said politely, setting the cup down on it's saucer.

"Why are you here?" John said with a sigh, watching the elder Holmes tiredly. He scrubbed his face with his hands, eyes trailing over him. The man tensed up a bit, then set his tea down. "Of course. Your wife is coming quite close to term, am I not mistaken, Dr. Watson?"

"What does that have to do with anything, Mycroft?"

"I'm afraid that 221 has become a bit...small for your ever growing family, hasn't it?" He asked, brows raised. John only frowned, licking his lips. "Well, yes, but we're thinking of ways to accomadate." He explained, crossing his arms and sitting back.

Mycroft nodded, sitting forwards. "Allow me to add a solution to your problem. I've found a home for Sherlock. It's a calm, controlled enviroment, where Sherlock can be supervised and cared for. He'll have people around him and nurses to help him. It's the perfect situation for him." He said calmly.

John frowned deeply. "So your saying the solution is for Sherlock to move out," he said slowly. "To a place where he wont know anyone, and wont be able to do any of the things that make him himself." He glared at Mycroft, though the man seemed to not notice. "We'll have him visit before he moves. That way you can reside here, and you have no need to move with a new born baby." He said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And you'll have to admit, my brother isn't the best thing to have around a new baby. He's quite hands on and not quite careful."

The good doctor scrubbed his face and sighed heavily. "Look, Mycroft, I understand how you're doing your best to be caring and loving and all that, but I don't think it's the best solution for Sherlock. It'll scare and upset him, more than likely." He stood, walking to the door and opening it for Mycroft. "Sherlock will be up soon, either way. I don't want him hearing any of this. Now I suggest you go, Mycroft. Meaning now."

The man got up, lips pursed into a thin line. "Thank you," he said calmly. "Please take it into consideration." He pressed a brochure into John's hands. "I think it's the best option for my brother. And quite honestly, the only option for you. Good day, Dr. Watson."

Shutting the door behind Mycroft, he sighed heavily, hands scrubbing through his hair. The bloody man was right. Other than renting out 221c as well, they didn't have another option. They couldn't just rent another bigger flat, the money wasn't there. They could barely afford this one, though Mrs. Hudson had lessened their rate, bless her. God, he would have to talk to Mary about it. No one would happy about this. 

*                                                                                                                                    *                                                                                                                                        *  
Sherlock didn't know what time it was when he woke up. He was still a bit tired, but he was up now. Stretching, he slowly made his way out of his room. He didn't know if it was early or late, but he didn't want to wake John or Mary up if it was early. It would be nice if he made them breakfast. John said he couldn't use the stove or oven without supervision. He could make other things, then. He slowly made his way down the hallway, but paused when he heard voices.

"I've found a home for Sherlock. It's a calm, controlled enviroment, where Sherlock can be supervised and cared for. He'll have people around him and nurses to help him. It's the perfect situation for him." That was Mycroft's voice.

  
Moving? Sherlock was moving? He pulled away, back into the hallway near his room, their voices fading away. Why? Was he bad, so he had to go? As much as he thought and racked his brain...there was nothing. Nothing bad he could find that he'd done. Just a few minor things....could that be enough?

Was it because he wasn't smart anymore? That he was....disabled? "My brother isn't the best thing to have around a new baby. He's quite hands on and not quite careful."

Oh. The Baby.

"Sherlock will be up soon, either way. I don't want him hearing any of this. Now I suggest you go, Mycroft. Meaning now." John was mad. Really mad. Oh, John was mad at him. He was mad that Sherlock was dumb and not good with babies so he'd have to be sent away. That now John would have to pay Mycroft, or pack up all of Sherlock's things. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to go. But...if it was what was best for them...

He felt his eyes prickle with tears and he rushed back to his room, bundling himself in his blankets and having a cry.

He didn't come out until late morning, not speaking a word until Lestrade showed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dears! Sorry this one isn't as angst-filled as I would've liked. But it's the best I've got at the moment :3 If there's anything at all you'd like to see added into the story, just leave a comment! I'll do my best.


	7. A Pleasant Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's morning and then a bit of Greg.

Chapter Six: A Pleasant Morning

Eggs, bacon and pancakes. That's what John had made for breakfast. John, of all people. It wasn't that John was a bad cook. In fact, he was a great cook. He taught Mary alot. But...Mary made breakfast. Baby or no, Mary made it. It wasn't right if she didn't. 

In Sherlock's mind, he was saying sorry. John couldn't say it outright; he thought Sherlock didn't know. He didn't want Sherlock to know. The man felt guilty, he could tell that much. It was Doctor's instincts, and John had always been there for Sherlock. He'd always lived with him, helped him. At least since Sherlock was big. Now that he was going away...it didn't feel right. But as long as Sherlock didn't say, John wouldn't make him go. Yet, at least. Sherlock just didn't have to do anything dumb or not-helpful. He had to be....he had to be extra good. He couldn't just do his best today, he had to do better. He didn't have a choice.  
Not if he wanted to stay here with his friends.

Were they friends, even if they were sending him away? If they didn't love him anymore?

The detective sat silent at the table mouth open slightly in concentration as he moved his marker across the paper, pushing it into the lines. Mycroft had brought a new colouring book with him, this time it being a dragon one. It had people in it too, but Sherlock just coloured the dragons. A smile pushed at his lips, pulling away to look at it. He'd coloured all of it in without going out of the lines. Smirking, he set his red marking down and reached for his pencil. He wrote on it, brow furrowing as he struggled with it. By: Sherlock. For a while, he sat thinking of what John's favourite colour was. Not wanting to ask him, he decided on blue and began to write. FOR JOHN. There. It was perfect.

 

                                                                           

 

Sliding off the chair, he walked towards the man, picture clutched to his chest. John didn't seem to notice him, starting to put the food on the plate. When he turned, Sherlock was reaching for the pan, to help hold it so John could take the pancakes off easier. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" the man shouted, quickly reaching to grab the pan, placing it back on the burner. "Jesus, Sherlock! You could have burnt yourself!"

Oh. Maybe this wasn't a sorry breakfast, then.

Ashamed, Sherlock's cheeks heated, and he stared at his socks. The army Doctor sighed heavily, reaching to place a firm hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, mate. I shouldn't have yelled, alright? I just was worried you were going to hurt yourself. I thought we talked about not touching the stove without someone helping you?" Mary let him do it himself. That's how he knew how. Mary let him do it.

"What's that, Sherl? Did you finish your picture?" John said, his voice much softer now. The detective gave a bit of a nod, extending it towards John. He'd worked hard on it. He really did. He thought he did a fairly good job at it. He didn't go out of the lines, and he wrote everything write. It was a really, really good picture. Or....so he thought. John may say otherwise. "It's brilliant, Sherlock." John's voice was almost in awe. He hugged Sherlock tightly, arms wrapping around him as he clung to the man.

The embrace was tight, but gentle at the same time. John was upset, Sherlock knew.He was hugging him with a warmth that meant that he was remembering when Sherlock wasn't...like this. That he was really sad, that he needed something to ground him. He used the hug as a tether, squeezing him slightly. "It's perfect, Sherlock. I love it. Thank you so much. Really." Pulling away, he reached out to squeeze his shoulder again. "Why don't you go sit and I'll get you your breakfast? Greg is going to be here soon."

Sherlock didn't answer, going to sit and start to put his colouring away. When his food was placed in front of him, he realized how sad John was. He'd gone the extra mile, writing the molecules for water and oxygen on his pancake made out of whipping cream. Beside it, his bacon formed Au. He wanted Sherlock to be happy, then. Cheerful.

The man felt everything but cheerful and happy.

"Something wrong, Sherlock?" Mary asked him gently, watching the man stare at his food. She'd settled down to eat her own, smiling at Sherlock. "I saw your drawing, Sherlock. It's quite beautiful. I'm proud of you. You're doing really well." He nodded quietly, pushing his food around with his fork. Both Mary and John had started to eat, though they seemed confused at why Sherlock wasn't eating. "Just a few bites, Sherlock. You're going with Lestrade today," Mary pressed, "and I don't want you to be hungry. I'll pack you a snack, but you still have to eat breakfast. You know the rule, sweetheart. Ten bites." Mary's words weren't very encouraging. He didn't want to eat. He didn't want to go out with Lestrade. He wanted to stay and play. He couldn't eat, he didn't feel well. Nausea rolled across his stomach, threatening to overflow on to his plate. 

"Sherlock, are you not feeling well?" Mary asked soothingly, reaching to rub his back. Sherlock pulled away from her touch, continuing to stare down his breakfast. Slowly, he reached to take a tentative bite. His stomach tensed and recoiled as it traveled down his digestive track, but other than that...he was fairly fine. He could do this. He could. Taking a breath, he slowly began to eat the food. Each bite was slow and careful, tentative and thought out. 

It was a bloody blessing when Lestrade knocked. 

"I'll get it," John said from where he was putting dishes in the sink, going to open the door with a smile. "Greg, hey, mate," he greeted, hugging the man and patting his back. "John," Greg returned with a grin, pulling away and smirking at Sherlock. "Still having breakfast, Sherlock? Here I thought I was runnin' late." 

"Someone's been a bit off this morning,"  Mary explained as she went about packing his bag. "Hasn't said a word." She frowned worriedly at him, watching him get up and start towards the loo. 

So what if he hadn't said anything? He didn't have anything to say. Or...nothing that wouldn't make them sad. Maybe mad. They'd be mad if they knew Sherlock had heard what Mycroft and John had said. Mary would be sad that was he was upset about it, and that he had found out like that. But it didn't change anything about what was going on. So, he had nothing to say. He went to the loo and changed by himself, going to get his coat on. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn't care. Let them stare, let them watch. They could stare and frown until their face slit off and eyes burst, but that wouldn't make him talk. That wouldn't make him smile. 

Once he was ready, he took his bag from Mary and told her a small thank you and goodbye before he followed Greg down to his car. 

The police detective helped him into the passenger seat, buckling him into the seat. "Ready, Sherlock?" He asked, smiling at the man. "What should we do today? I'm sure there's something in that big head of yours that you'd like to do." 

Sherlock hesitated. He hadn't gone in a long time. John said he wasn't allowed to go anymore. But....Lestrade didn't know that. 

"The park." He said quietly. John was sending him away. He couldn't tell him what to do anymore. Besides...people sent their kids away from him at the park. It'd be nice this time to be the one being left, instead of being forced and kept away. 

If people thought him a freak that needed to be pushed away, he might as well live it. 


	8. Silence is Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a day out with Lestrade. Things go far from planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's NOT dead? Me! It's a miracle, right? SO, funny thing....my laptop like....died. I had the next three(ish) chapters written out and then BOOM! Gone. Yeah, so....there's my excuse. Sorry. But, here's the next chapter. Bit angsty. Also, pedophilia mention.

Chapter Seven: Silence is Key

The park wasn’t a very busy place. There were a few children running around, darting from place to place, running after each other and screaming happily. It seemed like a good place to be. Lestrade’s eyes followed to women with children, fingers flickering to their hands before he either chose to look away or back up at them. So his wife was gone, then. He was looking for someone new, someone that he might hit off with. One of the reason’s he willingly agreed to let Sherlock go to the park. He’d asked Sherlock if he’d help him out, and at the time, the man hadn’t cared. He just wanted to go.

Agreeing to help the man out, he had sighed and leaned back in his seat, watching London go by. People’s easy lives, simple ones. Lives he wished he had. He had watched as a child laughed and held on to his mother’s hand, licking at his ice cream cone while his balloon was tied on his wrist, bobbing in the air as they walked. Lestrade had offered to take him out for ice cream later when he had noticed. Oh, well.

Sherlock had wandered over to the sandbox when they arrived, leaving his bag with Lestrade. The man had grabbed his things first, quietly sitting and pushing sand into his bucket. He’d already sent the DI away when he had offered to join him; he wouldn’t bother him for some time. As he filled and dumped his bucket, he looked around to see which way was the best way to make the escape. It’d be easy, and Lestrade was entertained with all the mothers.

When he found the right route, he’d nearly smiled. Lestrade was entertained with chatting up a darker woman wearing a gem on her head and pretty flowing dark hair. She was laughing, and the DI was smiling. They both seemed distracted and for a moment, Sherlock thought he’d be able to get away. It wasn’t until Lestrade called for him that Sherlock turned.

“Mate? You’re alright?” He asked gently, going over to him. “I thought I saw a smile. Didn’t think I’d get one today.” His voice was teasing, playful. “Do you want me to push you on the swings, help on the slide?” The man nearly rolled his eyes at him. He was just using Sherlock as bait for a date. Turning away, the man ignored him plainly, going back to pushing sand into the bucket.

“Greg, my husband’s here. It was nice talking to you! Perhaps I’ll see you at work, then?” She asked, smiling at him as she helped a small boy into a car. Lestrade waved at her, smiling as he turned back to Sherlock. “So, how ‘bout it? I’m sure I can get ya real high, mate.”

So she was a co-worker. Not a potential date. Interesting.

He shook his head, quietly carving a small hole into the mound of sand he had just tipped over. “Making a castle?” Lestrade prompted. “It sure looks impressive. Think they’ll be a murder to solve there? Who killed the cook sorta deal? Maybe I could solve it.” When Sherlock made a scoffing noise, Greg laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit.”

Or, so Lestrade thought. Everyone else did.

He looked up, over the buildings quietly. Maybe he could stay with Lestrade. Hide away in his car, snuggle in his spare bed. Come to crime scenes. It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? No….not really.

Looking over at the man, whose smile was warm and welcoming. It’d taken the man a long time to get used to him. He struggled with being with Sherlock, more often than not saying the wrong thing at the wrong time or acting as though the previous consulting detective didn’t understand a lick of English. Sherlock hadn’t seen Greg much back then. Mycroft and John helped him, making it easier to be around him. Now he was almost no different than John. Different in his own ways and not as comforting, but they treated him the same and knew him the same.

Done with playing, Sherlock gathered up his things to go sit in the shade of the tree. Lestrade followed, getting Sherlock out some apple slices and handing them to him. The detective ate quietly, watching the other children there. His eyes studied them, deduced them.

_Oldest. Single mother, age seven or eight. Mother struggling with money, but still able to care for her child._

_Middle Child (?), was an older. Child died young….tragic. Parents over protective. Rich…upper class, Mother has an important job….._

His thoughts were cut off when a very rich looking woman walked up to them. “Excuse me, what exactly do you think you’re doing?” She snapped, looking between them. Her gaze was threatening and angry; she was used to getting her way.

Sherlock had been lying his head on Lestrade’s lap, one hand absently rubbing through his curls as he watched. Lestrade had been doing God knew what as he handed Sherlock his snack, encouraging him to drink some water every once and a while.

“I should report you to the police,” The woman had continued when neither had answered. “You sick, disgusting perverts.”

At that point, Lestrade had gotten defensive, easing Sherlock off his lap and standing. “Well then it’s a good thing I’m the police,” He said calmly, though there was an edge to his words. “I thought this place was a public park. I didn’t realize there was an age restriction to who could come here.”

Much to the DI’s pleasure, the woman looked baffled. “These are _children,”_ she repeated. "You sick monsters. How dare you use these children to fuel your…your….your _fantasies.”_

Sherlock could see Lestrade snapped. Though he was still very much still confused, he watched as everything clicked into place for Greg, and he roughly pulled the woman aside. He snapped and shouted at her, though they had gone far enough away that the words were muffled and difficult to hard to understand. Yet, Sherlock didn’t need to deduce that they were talking about him. That he’d messed up again, by coming here.

Staring at his shoes, he shifted uncomfortably, tears stinging his eyes. Why couldn’t he come here? What was so bad? He liked it here. He liked playing on the swings and in the sandbox….but John never let him come and now Lestrade was going to make him leave. The woman kept giving him looks of pity and disgust, which only made his stomach hurt more.

Tears streaking his cheeks, he pushed his face into his knees. He didn’t want to cry, because he never cried, but he couldn’t have felt more useless in his life. He couldn’t remember things, he couldn’t do things properly. He was dumb and useless. John and Mary didn’t want him….how could he have thought Lestrade wanted him either? Mycroft was lucky he’d found a place for him. Who would want to take in someone who couldn’t care for themselves and only made everyone around them sad or frustrated?

Sherlock had already gotten to his feet when Lestrade came back. The man’s face was red with anger, though it softened when he saw the small-minded man. “Oh, Sherlock…” he breathed quietly, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Why don’t we go get that ice cream, huh? Then I think a trip to the toy store is in place.” He breathed quietly, patting the man’s back and passing him his things. “Do you want Bee?” He asked gently. “John and Mary packed him for you.”

Accepting the plush toy, Sherlock clutched him to his chest and stroked the head tenderly. Lestrade helped him into the vehicle, buckling him in and patting his shoulder again. He was trying to be reassuring, Sherlock could tell, but…..all he could feel was a heavy weight on his chest.

It’d felt like his heart had been ripped out. No one wanted him. No one cared for him.

*                                                                  *                                                                        *

 

The trip to the ice cream shop hadn’t done much to cheer up Sherlock. He remained quiet and still, absently eating it so it didn’t drip down on to his fingers. Greg had tried to cheer him up, but it didn’t really work. Sherlock had given a small smile, but it was empty and broken.

At the toy store, they wondered around for what seemed like forever. Sherlock’s smile had briefly come back when he saw an entire pirate set, but had quickly fallen when he’d seen the price. Greg had offered to buy a smaller set, but it hadn’t been the same. Finally they settled for a new comforter, one of with Jake from the Neverland Pirates. It was new and super soft, so it was nice. They had taken it out of the bag for Sherlock to cuddle with on the way home. The blanket made him feel slightly better, but not by much.

When they got back, Mary and John were already waiting in the doorway. They welcomed him home with cheek kisses and tight hugs, though it was clear that they knew something was wrong kick. The questions came in rapid fire, overwhelming him and almost making the man burst into tears.

Thankfully, Lestrade pulled them away, agreeing to speak with them. Mary let Sherlock sit on the ground to play with his trains, blanket wrapped around him. Bee sat in his lap, to which he spoke quietly to.

They could have at least been quieter if they were going to speak about him. He could hear their voices echoing from the kitchen and could almost see their reactions. John’s nostrils would flair and he would blow hard out of his nose, where Mary would put one hand on her belly and the other on John. Both of their backs would straighten; military stance. Their heads would be high, lips drawn tightly in a pursed line.

It was almost comical when they returned smiling and eager to soothe his wounds. How someone who didn’t want him and was sending him away could stand to be so comforting towards him, especially when they knew they would be hurting him, he didn’t know. He’d thought John was trying to say “sorry” this morning, but he had come to the conclusion he hadn’t.

Everyone looked hurt when he turned away from them all, trying to play on his own as he pulled up his blanket higher around him. It took a while, but after long minutes of prodding and quiet questions, they had left him alone. He played absently to himself, pushing his trains along the tracks, setting of the men he had into a murder he could solve.

Dinner was called, and he sat down as was expected. Apparently Lestrade had gone home, though Sherlock hadn’t noticed. John had ordered Chinese food, knowing it was the curly haired man’s favourite. Despite that fact, he didn’t touch any of it. Sherlock refused his ten bites Mary told him he had to eat, excusing himself from the table to go brush his teeth and go to bed. It was early, but from the look on the Watson’s faces, they were exhausted.

The pair helped him brush his teeth and have a bath, helped him get dress and tuck him into bed. They made sure he had his blanket and his bee, they made sure his Peter Pan movie was playing. They kissed him goodnight, then left him in the room alone.

He was thankful for the movie’s volume; they wouldn’t hear him crying then.

He would miss this so, so much. He didn’t want to go. This was his home, this was where he wasn’t a _freak,_ or a _pervert,_ or _dumb, stupid, retarded, disabled……_ none of it. This was his home.

But even they didn’t want him anymore.


	9. Thunderbuddies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-done chapter to make it longer and to make the night more clear. Also why John and Mary hadn't asked Sherlock why he was upset earlier. But things are going to be getting done 3:)

Chapter Eight: Thunder Buddies

_Running. Running, Running. Needing to get away, to safety. The only sound feet slapping and crushing the ground beneath them as they ran, desperate to get away. Needing comfort, soothing words and back rubs. His feet pushed harder, lungs burning and aching as they rapidly expelled and drew in air._

_Someone was behind him, shouting at him. Their voice was a ringing gong that filled the silence, killing any other sound that dared try to make a sound... “It’s your fault!” The voice screamed, sounding as though it was despair and agony personified. “You couldn’t save them!”_

_The feet pushed faster, thighs shaking and burning with pain. Never in his life had it hurt so much to breathe._

_The one voice had grown to two, then to three, then four and so on. It grew until it was a mass of people, screaming and shouting at him. There was so much hurt, so much pain. All he could feel was regret and sadness, the sounds of children wailing and sobbing for their parents filling the choir of voices. It was like he was being smothered by them, body becoming heavier and harder to move the more there was of them._

_Gun fire echoed around them, causing him to duck and dodge. With each bullet, a voice quieted. The voices that were left soon turned to him to beg him to save them from the lurk of death, but after what seemed like centuries, there was no voice left but his own._

_His knees gave out from under him, body collapsing on to the harsh pavement. His cheek had split from the impact, soaking the black ground with a deep ruby. The colour-splashed pavement began to shake and move, thundering and violently shifting underneath him. Shocked, the man watched as pillars, doors and walls came down around him._

_Struggling, he forced himself up the steps in front of him to the door. His hands struggled to grasp the door with the ground shaking like it was, but to his luck, it opened on its own. John stood there, smiling at him soothingly. The tender doctor reached down, cupping his cheek. John’s hand was getting covered in crimson, hot thick blood from his face. It seemed it wasn’t his cheek that was bleeding. It was his head, temple to be specific. But how….?_

_More debris came down and he shuddered in fear, trying to climb inside the safety of the house. John blocked his way, still smiling as he hugged him, arms strong. He struggled, trying to get away and go inside. Everything was coming down and wasn’t going to be long until it crushed him._

_“We don’t want you,” John said simply, pushing him away so he tumbled down the steps. “You couldn’t help them. You’re useless now. Why would we want you? You can’t do anything, mate.” The doctor’s smile was genuine, as gentle as ever. It brought the crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes to attention, something he’d always been fond of._

_The door shut with a slam, more debris coming down to pin him and keep him from getting to the door handle. With the pain, came the voices. “You could have saved us! Why didn’t you save us?”_

_One last gun shot, though it wasn’t to end the voices around him. It was to end his._

Thunder and lightning crashed around London, shaking the house and rendering most of the city in blackness. 221b had lost its power, completely in the dark aside from the moonlight filtering through the curtains like a nightlight.

Sherlock’s sleep was everything but restful. His sheets and blankets were a prison, a strait jacket that kept him strongly pinned in place as he screamed. His voice echoed in the small room, shouting his fears and misery to the blackness.

Gentle hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him and trying to get him to wake. They pleaded with him to wake up, backing up a few inches when he did. John’s eyes were full of fear and deep concern, dark colour filtered to be an almost blue in the moonlight. The doctor’s hands returned to Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, mate. It’s fine, just a blackout, okay? The storms a bit of a bad one.”

To prove his point, the house gave a deep shake, windows rattling. “Mary’s finding candles,” he explained quietly. “So we can see better. Maybe we could stay up and watch the storm for a bit, have a midnight play, hm?” The man was rubbing his back, trying to soothe him. For what it was worth, it was working. Sherlock leaned into his touch gratefully, head on his shoulder tiredly. If not for his bad dreams, he would have just asked to go back to sleep and have John stay with him. The good doctor never seemed to mind.

John smoothed back the curls from the detective’s face, looking into his eyes. “What’s wrong, Sherl? You’ve been so off lately…is your head bothering you? Is your medication making you feel like this? I know you don’t like going to the doctor’s, but if that is happening, mate, we need to go. So we can hear your voice and see that smile again.”

Sherlock flinched at the roll of thunder, staring at his hands. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to be left alone. Instead, John rubbed his back again, opening the window so they could see out. Outside was almost beautiful.

Almost.

Mary quietly came in, knocking on the door politely. “Hello, sweet things. Everything alright?” She asked gently, smiling as she came to sit next to them. “I’ve got the candles out in the living room, if you’d like to come out there for a bit. I think I’d be nice to sit and watch the storm. Nothing to be afraid of.”

Together, the two Watson’s helped Sherlock up and on to the living room couch. The detective whimpered at the thunder, curling into John, who tensed a bit. “You know,” he laughed softly, stroking his fingers through the soft curls, “you used to tell _me_ it was ridiculous to be scared of thunder. That it was completely in my head.”

When Sherlock looked up at him in confusion, John nodded. “It’s true. You’d come upstairs and sit with me, sometimes even play the violin. They always seemed like gun shots…” His eyes clouded as he looked down at Sherlock, turning away. “Well, as you said. Completely ridiculous.”

Mary offered them tea. “Here,” she whispered, kissing both temples. “I got the stove to light using a match. Tea makes things better. Sherlock, would you like to play until the storm passes? I’d suggest something else, but there isn’t much else _to_ do.”

“Story?” He whispered, then paused, teeth starting to aggravate and chew his lip. “P….peas?”

Laughing, John nodded, the crow’s feet returning to his eyes. “’Course, Sherl. I can read you something. Anything in particular?”

“You know, I think that’s the first sentence I’ve heard out of him all day,” Mary teased, though no one was surprised when Sherlock didn’t respond to either of them. “I think I forgot you had a voice.”

By the time Sherlock had gotten up the nerve to speak, John had already gotten a book down. He settled into his place next to Sherlock, and the curly haired man lied down to place his head in John’s lap.

John had chosen _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,_ and Sherlock couldn’t have been any happier. The book was soothing, calming. He didn’t need to think much, really.

Soon, John paused, looking down at Sherlock as he stared off into the distant. “Sherlock, can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“What’s wrong? You never answered me. Does your head hurt? Do you feel sick? We’re worried…..Mary and I have been trying not to bug as to not upset you, but we’re getting upset ourselves. We need you to tell us, mate. We’re friends, right? Friends tell each other things.”

Sherlock’s voice was a small whimper.

“Even if it hurteds them?”

“Even if it hurts them, mate.”

Slowly, Sherlock began to speak over the storm. “I sowee. I sowee…..I won’t be useless no mowe. I be good, ohtay? I will’s!” He whimpered, shifting and looking at John with a pleading look. To that the other man only gave him back a severely confused one. “Sherlock? Where did this come from? You’re not useless, you know that. You’re so super smart and you help everyone out. You make people happy. People like Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft and I. You help me out lots and you help Mary too, when she’s having trouble because of the baby.”

Gently, he prodded the man. “Who ties Mary’s shoes and his own all by himself?”

“….me.”

“And who made Mary and I yummy breakfast and lunch when it was our anniversary?”

“….me ‘gain.”

“How is that useless, then?”

Sherlock paused for a long time, thinking it over as he stared at his hands “Then why I am is goin’ away, John? I not wanna. I wanna stay an’ be wif you an’ Mary….” Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall, instead watching the lightening.

“Going away? Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you on? Are you on…” He stopped, swallowing and thinking. “You heard Mycroft and I, didn’t you?” He whispered.

Sherlock only nodded, tears feeling more and more like they’d be making an appearance.

John sighed, watching the lightening for a long time. “Sherlock…..” he said quietly. “You’re….” He looked down, blinking. “You’re bloody asleep. Fuckin’ hell.” Sighing, he helped the man lie down on his own bed, staying with him for a few moments before getting up and getting Mary to help get him back to bed.

This needed to be dealt with, and dealt with now.


	10. William Holmes

Chapter Nine: William Holmes

Everything was calm. Quiet, still. It was as though time had stood still, standing frozen just for those few moments. Moments someone could admire, watch and adore. Something to be cherished and held close. Something at the back of his mind told him that this hadn’t been the first time he thought this, or felt this way. Been awake at this time. It was like he was supposed to remember something, but couldn’t.

He had always felt this way. Ever since he could remember.

When he woke in the hospital; that was his first _true_ memory. Everything else was false. Something his mind had created to go with the stories of the memories he was supposed to have. Mycroft had brought pictures, diaries. John had his blog. No matter how much they pressed and assured that everything that they told him was true…..it wasn’t. That wasn’t him. He couldn’t remember that. He wasn’t _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective._ He was just….Sherlock.

For a long time he went as William. That was his name, wasn’t it? It seemed to break everyone’s heart but….that was his name. Why would he go by Sherlock? It was stupid, dumb and completely senseless.

Truly the only reason he went back to Sherlock was because John couldn’t seem to get his name right.

Bits and pieces came back now and then, as though he were remembering a small fact from a movie. Things like his Lego at Mummy’s, or how John took his coffee….things that gave people false hope to his memory returning.

He never had the heart to tell them it would never happen.

These….these were the moments he loved the most. The hours in which everyone else was asleep and darkness took over. If he thought he could manage to walk, he would stand, climbing over to the window to sit and stare outside. The city was nearly black; the city lights flickered off and on in some places, as though they were the rippling reflection of the stars up above. Distant and dying, their light reaching London as a final goodbye. The moon seemed to paint its own colours over the scene; using a thick brush to leave strokes across, some places thick and heavy with light, other parts left empty and black.

In these times he used to play his violin. John was always restless at this time, the night terrors beginning to take over. Sherlock’s soothing music had seemed to take over and calm him, much as Mary had done for him now. Mary was John’s music. He didn’t need to wake up and see the beauty of the darkness, the black and what everyone else feared; he had Mary.

There was a warm, softness beside him. John. The man had stirred when Sherlock woke, one arm reaching to drape across his legs. Making sure he was alright and calm, not upset. Sweet John, always worried, despite needing to worry for himself.

The detective slid from the bed, letting the arm fall on the soft bed and silken sheets. One his bags lay abandoned, sitting slumped against the bureau waiting for him.

What Sherlock packed was from his clean pile (Mary and John still encouraged him to put his own things away, including clothes. Mostly, he just left them there until he wore them), stuffing it all into his bag. He packed what he thought he needed and what he thought Mary always packed for him. Stealing an apple and some cookies from the cupboard, he started to slide on some shoes.

They’d be sad, yes. Perhaps in the beginning. But according to what John’s blog said and what Mycroft had told him, Sherlock used to sneak away all the time. That’s how he got like this, sneaking away. Sneaking away and going to the place where he had gotten hurt.  So maybe they wouldn’t worry. Just think he was being _good-ol’-Sherlock._ John said that sometimes. It was strange.

Regardless, his shoes, scarf (Mary would be upset if he didn’t wear it--) and coat. He didn’t bother with a hat, his hands trembling as he pulled the bag on to his back and Bee in his hand. Bee had his own clothes on; and Sherlock had wrapped one of Mary’s scarves around him for good measure, making sure he wasn’t cold too. Once everything was ready, he braved out into the unknown.

 Outside was even prettier than how it looked inside. Everything was wet; and the small drops dripped gorgeously down, sparkling and ringing with starlight, as though each drop had a small star trapped inside. For a long time he just stood there, clutching Bee to his chest, backpack on his back, staring up at the stars. His face was shadowed, his curls starting to frizz from the damp and moist air.

Then slowly, very slowly, his feet started to walk. Slowly at first, then faster, faster. He ran through the puddles, feeling them splash on to his pant legs. They got wet, yes, but that didn’t matter. It just made it easier to jump into the other ones. The storm had gone away and the light of the streetlight was just enough to see. It was perfect. There was no one to tell him to go away, that he was bad, that he was scaring kids. That he was a _pedophile,_ that he wasn’t acting his age, to chastise him for being a freak, a psychopath, to give him pity. Nothing.

It was Sherlock being Sherlock. No, not Sherlock-William. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

He was being who he _was,_ not who people _remembered_ and _wanted_ him to be.

As he walked his feet lead him to the park he’d been to with Lestrade. The sand was disgusting and not meant to be played in (even he could tell that), so he traveled on to merrier places to play. For a while he sat Bee on his lap, sliding down the slide. His bum got wet, but that (again) didn’t matter. He played on everything. No one could tell him no. No one could take his friends away. No one.

When he played, he talked. He didn’t have to be quiet here. He could tell Bee everything he wanted, that he felt. All the things he could _see_ about people, about the park. How the slide had been repaired so many times in its life; that it had seen hundreds of children come and go. That there’d been a mother there earlier in the day, bringing her daughter to relieve not only her stress, but to give her daughter some happiness. Some other people had come by later, doing odd things in the sand and rain. There was white, but he stayed clear of that.

People were odd.

It was when he was on the swing that he fell.

The metal was wet, his hands had had trouble gripping it. He couldn’t hold it right and already his hands were cramping and shaky from being out too long and because he hadn’t taken his medicine. They shook, so he couldn’t hold on. He fell off when he went up, and Bee had become airborne. As a comfort he told himself Bees flew. That’s what they were supposed to do. But he had also read that Bees can’t fly when their wings are wet.

Bee landed in the mud and water, while Sherlock’s head landed hard on the ground. The blackness swallowed him in, making him sleep for a long time. He didn’t remember falling asleep.

Waking up was hard. He was cold and his body shaking, trousers soaked down to his pants and hands a dark pink and purple-y colour. His nails were a dark blue, turning purple too. Coughing, he crawled over to where his soaked Bee was, clutching him to his chest. Tears fell as he shook, rain starting to fall from the heaven above.

Every time he tried to get up, he fell down again. His feet scraped on the ground, forcing him down to the mud. It smeared his cheeks and into his hair, but he refused to lie down. It took eternity, but he finally got himself to move. One step at a time, he made it to shelter. The alleyway was away from the street, and there were boxes for him to lie in. No rain seemed to be getting in, though he continued to shiver and cry in his cardboard home.

Bee’s wing was ripped, same as his arm. That made Sherlock cry harder, cheeks flamed red and nose dripping mucus.

He used to love the night. He used to love Baker Street, being with John. They were partners. Best friends. But now he was a danger and was going to hurt the baby, just like he hurt be. He was useless. Couldn’t even take care of Bee.

He wanted everything to go back, to go back when he didn’t remember, when he didn’t know. When he was learning, when nothing made sense and he was scared of the strangers John and Mycroft had been. He didn’t want to be William Sherlock Scott Holmes anymore.

He didn’t want the memories.

He wanted everything gone.


	11. Into Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's feelings....sort of.

Chapter Ten: Into Battle

Initially, it was the sun that woke him. It was bright, harsh and filled the area with its cheeriness. His bones and joints were stiff; the awkward angle he had slept in hadn’t done much for his back. Sitting up, he cast aside the blankets trapping his legs, pushing them to the other side of the bed. Really, it took him several moments to realize that there wasn’t another body on the bed.

Looking at the time, he realized how late it was. He’d slept in….Sherlock would be up already. Stretching and rubbing at his shoulder, he reached for his cane and limped stiff-legged into the living room. Mary was at the stove, round stomach protruding heavily to nearly block her from her task. She wasn’t far from birth now, only a month away. Her slender hands tenderly flipped the omelet, letting it cook on the other side. It was times like this that she thought she was the most beautiful. In the simple things, in the times when she thought no one was watching. When her mind was lost in her thoughts, focused though slightly distant. The light glimmered off of her just right, enough to make her skin and hair glow, her eyes like sparkling sunlight.

A smile flittered to John’s face and he walked over to wrap his arms around the woman’s waist, hands cupping the pregnant stomach happily. His face nuzzled her shoulder, holding her lovingly. She leaned back into him, laughing lightly. “Well, good morning,” she greeted happily, placing her own hands on John’s. Body turning, tilting, she pressed her lips to John’s. “Seems everyone is having a lie in. It’s nearly ten o’clock, love,” she breathed softly, reaching to cup his cheeks as she laughed. “And _you_ need to shave.”

“Maybe I’m growing it out,” John returned, eyes bright and happy. His chest glowed with pride and love, simply happy with how things were. _This_ was how things were meant to be. How it was supposed to be. All before the _incident_ with Sherlock happened. “And I’d say I was the only one, depending on when Sherlock got up, love.” 

Slowly, Mary’s head tilted. Her mind seemed to be turning, whirring. She studied his face, then looked down the hallways. “John?” She said, voiced edging with worry. John’s face reflected hers, both looking at each other before it clicked.

“He didn’t get up with you?”

“He wasn’t in bed?”

They both spoke at the same time, though no answers were given before they both darted in different directions.

Panic was something John was familiar with. Fear and the thrill that came with it…it was something that happened often for him. But _this,_ **_this_** was different. It was an entirely different thing all together. This was _Sherlock._ Someone who was his best friend, who had saved him and that he had saved. Had it been before….John wouldn’t have been all that concerned. Now, Sherlock was _his_ responsibility. This was _his_ fault Sherlock was this way. Every day it broke his heart to see a man capable of such greatness be rendered useless. No more capable of anything than a child…all because of something _John_ did.

That was why he fought so hard to save him, to keep him happy. It was why he always forced himself to smile even though there were some days where all he wanted was to pour glass after glass and drink until he was like Sherlock---- until he could feel the man’s pain.

He wasn’t clueless. John was a Doctor…he could tell Sherlock was suffering. The man tried to hide it, the good army doctor knew. He knew how upset Sherlock got just by his _name._ But then again…he didn’t remember anything, so what right had John to force all of this upon him?

John was selfish. He knew that. He knew that he was taking advantage of Sherlock, choosing not to the see the man’s pain because he couldn’t even bare his own. Sherlock’s pain would just make everything worse, and then what good was he? Doctor or not….he couldn’t treat the wounds Sherlock had. It wasn’t the head wound John was prepared to deal with.

Sherlock wanted to start again….John didn’t. John wanted action, thrills, and cases. Not trains, cartoons, teaching and pampering. Yes, he did have a child on the way. In a way…Sherlock was practice. But that’s not what he _wanted._ He wanted Sherlock to be himself with the baby….to make simple deductions and snide comments that would make John want to burst with anger, but also pride. He’d give anything to have that Sherlock back.

“Bee’s gone,” Mary informed, panting from the effort. “So is his bag and some of his clothes.” Tears had formed in the woman’s eyes, threatening to stream down his face. “Where would he have gone? Was it Mycroft? He would have _told_ us….He can’t survive out there, John. I know he’s Sherlock, but….” Her voice trailed off as the tears streaked down her cheeks. “What did we do wrong? I thought we were doing _well._ I knew he’s been off the last couple days, but I thought it was one of his moods I should of _known…”_ She sobbed miserably, clutching one of his toys.

Slowly, John brought her into his arms, comforting her. “He thinks we’re sending him away. He heard Mycroft and I talking—about the home I was telling you about, Mary. Sherlock thinks he’s doing the best for himself. But it rained last night and…” He swallowed, reaching for his phone. “Call Greg, I’ll Mycroft. We’re getting out a search. People are still angry with Sherlock…..I don’t want to know what they’ll do when they find him.”

God knew he wasn’t helping with Mary’s worry. But he was talking out loud, he couldn’t think straight. Sherlock was _gone._ He was gone, and it was his fault. He should have woken up—why didn’t he wake up? “Mycroft?” When had Sherlock left? Why didn’t John hear him? Why was John so selfish as to think he could just ignore the problems, leave them until he didn’t have to deal with them? “Sherlock…Sh-Sherlock’s missing.” It was simple….Sherlock had been miserable, upset. No one had asked him what was wrong, not until it was too late. Now he was gone, and it was his fault. What best friend did this to their best friend? Especially after causing them so much pain? “We---We can’t find him anywhere. Bee’s gone….His coat and shoes--” Why did John have to only think of himself, his happiness? Sherlock always put John first…..and the doctor couldn’t even return the favour. No, instead John waits until Sherlock could be dead or injured to do anything. Mary asked, she prompted….she tried to cheer him up. John carried on with life. “We need to put out a search. As many men as possible.”

Mary’s hand cut off his thoughts, bring him back to the present. She passed him his coat, gathering Sherock’s favourite things, things that comforted him and calmed him. “Greg’s coming over to pick us up. He has his best officers out looking already. They’re scouring the streets, anywhere he would have gone.”

John nodded numbly, back straight. God, everything was full of panic and fear. Everything was going to hell, and him with it. Taking Mary’s trembling hand in his still one, he walked out quickly and without a hesitation in his step. The limp and pains from this morning were completely gone.

It was into battle.


	12. New John

Initially, it was the sun that woke him. It was bright, warm and filled the area with its light. His bones and joints ached with pain, the stiffness making it hard to move. The awful place and awkward he had slept in hadn’t done much for his head or back, really. Sitting up, he cast aside the blankets trapping his legs, pushing them to the other side of the bed. He blinked slowly, looking down at where he was lying. It took him several moments to realize he was in a _bed._ How did he get here? He wasn’t sleeping here before…Did he dream leaving John? Was he up already? Did he sleep in?

Looking around, it didn’t _look_ like his house. It was too bland…with a bed and an old looking chair, shabby and with plenty of stains. _Coffee stains…cheap. Linen are thrift-shop bought. Bargain apartment…desperate need of repair. Lack of—_

“Ah, so you’re up, then?”

The voice caught him off guard, his head snapping up to stare wide-eyed at the girl. Her hair looked as though a three year old cut it (he would know; he had tried to cut his own. Not only had John been very, very mad, it taken almost three to four months to grow back). Even braided, one was longer than the other, and pieces curled out and stuck up. The girl’s bangs were spiky, one side hanging down the length of her face and the others cut at different heights. Her face was smudged with dirt and grime, clothes tattered and clearly worn-down. Everything about her screamed _poor._ But why was he here? How did he _get_ here?

“Got you some breakfast, Mr. Holmes…It ain’t much, but I thoughts-hey, not like you eat much anyway.” The girl smirked, her chapped, sore, red lips turning up towards the roof.

Sherlock didn’t turn his eyes from her, hands clenching around the rough sheets. “You knows mine name,” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “Who is you? Why am I here?”

The poor girl’s brow cocked, her demeanor changing to defensive and suspicious. “You on a case, Mr. Holmes? You’re soundin’…People’ve been talkin’…that somethin’ happen to you…” She held up Bee, and Sherlock’s heart stopped, hands instantly reaching for him. “No!” He whined, freezing as she held the stuffed bee higher, eyes taking in how Sherlock’s followed it.

Gradually, Sherlock saw her realization. Taking his chance, he soared up and tore Bee from her hands, cradling him close. He took in his smell, breathing home in deeply. He could smell John in the plush, could feel the warmth and the happiness he had there. The detective’s heart ached to go back. He _wanted_ to go home. He shouldn’t have left. Yes, John was only making him go away, but…but he wouldn’t be _here_. He would be home, not with the scratchy sheets, with the stinky smell. All he wanted was to go _home._

Then the memories came back. _Why_ he had left: he was too rough and would hurt the baby…of John, not calling him by his name. Being such a burden to John and _especially_ Mary. She had a baby; she didn’t need to take care of him too.

 It all hurt. He couldn’t go back. He just…couldn’t. He _couldn’t._

“So it…did happen.” The girl breathed. “You was…shot. You’re no smarter than no kid.” Sinking into the chair (which exploded with dust from the impact) she rubbed her temples. “Ah, shite….”

“Let me go,” Sherlock snapped, hands tightening on Bee. “I can go by mineself. Just let me go.”

“I’m Freya.” The homeless girl blurted. “Ok…Sherlock? Look…you was sleepin’ in a box an’ half frozen when I found ya. So…stick ‘round, yea? Have some breakfast an’ relax. I’ll stich up your Bee for you, Ok?”

Still hesitant, Sherlock leaned back as though relaxing. She could fix Bee? It _had_ been his fault he’d been hurt... “My name is _William.”_ He corrected, rolling his eyes. “Ohtay? Not _Sherlock. William,_ idiot _.”_  He eyed her bag hungrily, trying to figure out the contents.

Freya saw what he was doing, reaching inside to pull the small breakfast sandwiches out and pass some to him. “Don’t tell anyone I stole these,” She told him with a wink. “’kay, _William_?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, biting into the food eagerly. He supposed she was okay. For now.

 

It turned out Freya was a very smart girl. She stitched up Bee like he was an art piece; he looked better than new by the time she was done. He even got to help a little (because he knew how to calm Bee, so he wasn’t upset and scared, Freya said).

After Bee was _aaall_ fixed, Freya went to meet her friend, who helped them to a magic shop that made friends like Bee. He had to pick out a body (there was lots of them, in different colours. Bears, puppies, a giraffe, turtles…) where he picked a fluffy brown bunny that was super soft. Freya’s friend helped him pick out a heart that sounded like his (that made the thumping sound) and showed him where they made it alive. The very nice man there then took his bunny, asking him to pick out more hearts and rub it on his body. Sherlock thus rubbed it on his forehead so he would be smart like him, on his hands so he would be gentle and could hold John’s baby, on his heart so he’d be loyal  and then on his mouth so he would smile and giggle. After giving it to the man, she put it in and stitched up his bunny. After instructing him to cuddle his bunny always and to be gentle and love him always, she sent them to pick out clothes.

There was lots of clothes to pick from. Sherlock couldn’t pick one—he picked lots. A suit like his, for when his bunny had to be fancy, some very nice blue star pajamas for sleeping, and then a day outfit for him. It was overalls and a dragon sweater (Toothless, Freya’s friend told him).

To make things official, they made him a birth certificate and gave him a bath. Freya had frowned a little when Sherlock named his bunny John; but he had insisted. He couldn’t see John anymore. So he made a new one. Despite her frown, Sherlock giggled more than anyone else.

After that, he’s not sure what happened. Freya had been putting his things in her bag for later, and Sherlock had been holding John. Freya’s friend told them to go, while he dropped to the ground and started to shake. People ran to him, and Freya and Sherlock ran, though he didn’t know why. He just held John and ran. \

They made it back to the flat okay, with Sherlock cradling John and Bee against his chest. Freya ushered him into the room while her and her friend stood outside, talking loudly about “taking Sherlock back” and “he needs to go back to them, we don’t know how to care for them”.

The cheap flat was not very good at keeping noise out, so Sherlock heard everything. He didn’t want to go back. He liked Freya—she called him William, not Sherlock. She got him a new John. She wasn’t mean and she made him giggle. Freya didn’t correct him when he talking was bad, or when sometimes he was confused. She explained things, and was very gentle. Freya didn’t make him colour or do math. She just let William be _William,_ not Sherlock.

In his mind, that was a very good job. At least better than what John had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....Sherlock went to Build-a-Bear, btw (place of my childhood *cough*) and got the super adorable blue-eyed Chocolate bunny....cause why not. We need some fluffiness at this point.


	13. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We go back in time a bit :D

Chapter Twelve: Waking Up

Whoever was beeping should stop. It was loud, and it was starting to hurt his head. _Beep. Beep. Beeeep._ He sighed, raising his hands to rub at his face. Odd…there was something soft and cotton-like wrapped about his head. It wasn’t a hat….he didn’t need one. Or did he? Was it summer? Fall? Spring? He couldn’t remember. No matter. His mummy would tell him. He heard a small, sharp intake of breath beside him and then shifting of feet sliding along the floor. Was it mummy? No…the feet were too heavy. Mycroft, then? What did he want now?

Something was wrong; he could sense it. But he couldn’t remember _what._

When he opened his eyes, bright light attacked his eyes, causing pain to flare up in his skull. “Easy, easy,” a voice beside him murmured. Soft, gentle, one he didn’t know or recognize. “You’ve been out for a bit. You gave us all a scare.”

Pressing his eyes open, he took in his surroundings. He was in a hospital. Why was he here?

The short, blond haired man was watching him closely. “Do you know where you are?” He asked, voice still gentle.

“H’p’tal,” he tried to answer, though his voice refused to work right, the syllables and letters jumbling and mixing in his mouth.

“Here, drink some water. Do you know you’re name?” The blond man—a doctor, he’d decided---offered him water and eased it to his mouth, to which he drank eagerly. The water was cool and soothing on his throat, making talking slightly easier.

His name, the doctor had asked. Of course he knew it. Elementary. Everyone knew their name. His name was—

His name.

He didn’t know it.

_He didn’t know his **name.**_

Sensing his panic, the man (doctor) put a hand on his.  “Hey, easy, relax. You were shot in the head, yeah? We’re lucky you’re alive.” The doctor sat back, eyes sad. “Now, your name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock? _That_ was his name?

“Now I doubt you remember me, but I’m John—John Watson,” the doctor continued, the sadness holding depth that said it had been there for a very long time. Not just hours…years. Something that had made its home there over a time, and something his voice did everything _but_ convey. Definitely a doctor, then.

“…and you live with me at 221B Baker Street.”

Lived with him? How did that work? What about his mummy? _Mycroft_ wasn’t even out of the house!

“Sherlock? Something wrong?” Dr. John Watson asked quietly.

“M-M’uh’mee. M’uh’mee….” He tried to vocalize, still struggling. His eyes took in the frown forming between John’s brows, as though they were trying to press together. Deep concern, then.

“Your mother?” He clarified, and Sherlock nodded in response. “She’s worried,” John said slowly, “but Mycroft is talking with her. Would you like me to get her?”

When Sherlock nodded for a second time, John’s eyes filled with concern. The man left, returning with a woman and a bigger and much rounder man than he was expecting.

Well….the woman _looked_ like his mummy. If his Mummy was very, very old. The man also _looked_ like Mycroft, if Mycroft was old and ate lots and lots of sweets so he got big and fat, his hair starting to fall out.

The-man-who-looked-like-Mycroft was studying him, the way Sherlock often inspected his experiments. “Sherlock? Do you remember us?” He asked, voice just as gentle as John’s.

Sherlock frowned, hands clutching at the blanket so tightly his knuckles turned white. What was going on?

The-man-who-looked-like-Mycroft sighed, rubbing his temple absently before rephrasing his question. “What was the last thing you remember?”

Getting stung. Being with Daddy, out in the field. He’d been looking at a tiny bee crawling over one of the lilacs, small legs clinging to the light purple petals. “ _Don’t touch him, son,”_ his father had instructed. “ _He’s a good one—we need to save them, William, do you understand?”_ Not waiting, he continued, “ _If you touch them, the bee will get scared and sting you. When they sting something, or someone, you see, they die. It kills them. It’s murder, son, so you just let that Bee be.”_ Sherlock had thus waited until his father had turned to head further into the field to carefully, gently run his finger over the fury body of the bee. As his Daddy had predicted, the Bee stung him and fluttered to the ground, dying. Sherlock had watched the small creature die in his hands, burying it under the lilac. “ _It’s murder, son.”_

Tears welled in his eyes. “I so’eh,” he whispered.

The-woman-who-looked-like-Mummy frowned at him, tenderly placing a frail, wrinkle worn hand on his shoulder. “You’re sorry, Sherlock? For what?”

“Bee,” he supplied.

“The Bee?”

“Stung meh.”

“You’re sorry the bee stung you.”

Everyone looked on him in confusion and worry. “Wif Dah-dee,” Sherlock had explained. Had they forgotten? A blush crept into his cheeks, feeling the awkwardness spread through the room like a thick, venomous gas. That’s what he remembered. That’s what they had asked him, wasn’t it? He was doing what they asked!

The-man-who-looked-like-Mycroft was staring at him in deep concern. “Sherlock, that was twenty-six years ago.”

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

Things were confusing. Sherlock didn’t remember anything after that day with the bee. He was Big now (he’d seen himself in the mirror; he was both handsome and very different. Different than how he was when he was very little, anyways) and he hadn’t remembered getting this big at all.

John helped him. He explained helped Sherlock with everything, comforting him when he got upset (which was very often, he found). Usually this happened when Sherlock wasn’t allowed home. “Just a bit longer, Sherl. Alright?” John would tried to soothe, distracting Sherlock with a book or game.

Sherlock loved John. More so, he found, than he did Mummy or Mycroft.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

They’d been on a walk (well, Sherlock was in his wheelchair, but that’s what John called the activity), going to meet Mary, John’s girlfriend. He’d learned this when she’d walked into his room, pecking John on the cheek and when she’d said hello to him. He had nodded, studying her. “You’re very pretty, and very nice.” He had said calmly. “You like John.” When she’d nodded with a laugh and thanked him, he’d sat back and nodded. “You can date John, then.” They’d been dating ever since.

They’d been going past the gift shop when he saw it.

A Bee.

“ ** _Stop!_** ” He had screamed at John, who panicked and jerked them to a stop. “Sher-William, are you alright? What’s wrong?” He panicked, bending down beside him. “ _Look,”_ Sherlock breathed in excitement, pointing into the window.

After several pleadings, John helped him up and they struggled over to the window. Sherlock kneeled (mostly because it was easier) and pressed his face against the glass so he could stare at the plushie.

The stuffed Bee was half buried in a pile of other animals, part of his head and arms sticking out.

Half ordering, Sherlock begged and pleaded for the toy. John (as firmly as he could manage) told him he had enough toys, but he could wait for his birthday or Christmas.

Sherlock had asked for the next few days. This turned into the next week, and the one after that.

It would have been three weeks if John had not come back from a coffee run with a soft plush Bee in his hand. Sherlock didn’t let go after that.

*                                                                      *                                                                      *

He chewed his nail, something both Mary and John disapproved of, lost in thought.

“William?” A soft, gentle voice called. The man glanced up from where he was staring at his menu, lost in thought. Bunny John was clutched tightly in his hand, the head flopped to the side with his ears bent over his face and arms spread in different directions. The waitress was standing politely next to them, one hand holding a pad of paper, a pen held above it. "Do you both need more time for drinks?" She asked softly, voice slightly bitter. Her hair was curled and bounced around her face, the dark copper colour glinting in the sun.

_A mummy. Rich, working off a debt with an ex boyfriend. Four children, nanny cares for them….little puppy, big house…_

"Ugh..." he started, cheeks tinting to a light pink. Freya offered a proud smile. "Would you like some chocolate milk? Some juice?" Sherlock's eyes cast down, cheeks darkening even more "Juice…?"

The waitress took her chance. "Apple, orange, mixed berry, tropical fusion, one of our..."

"I think he'll just have some apple." Freya reached over, gently patting his knee, though Sherlock was frowning deeply. Apple? He’d just wanted to see what kind of juice they had. He had wanted chocolate milk.

Sherlock could feel eyes on him, and his entire face burned. Why did they have to go out to eat? He hated it. He fiddled with his bunny, swallowing and setting him down before reaching for Bee instead.

Mary knew he liked chocolate milk best.

John knew how to make him feel better.

He was tired of being away. He wanted to go home.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm finally updating :D I have the rest of the story planned out, so I should update pretty gradually now. Only three chapters left!


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Thirteen: New Life

The area had a feint smell of mould and dust, with the smell of the sea blowing in from the north, where it was carried from the sea. The underside of the bridge was layered in graffiti that held no meaning to the naked eye, but underneath was a dictionary of words only those who knew it would understand. Two figures stood there, one hooded in shadow with his face hidden and voice low, the other standing close, his voice carrying low and desperate.

“Look, I know you know who he is. You’re part of his network. You have to have heard _something._ Anything will help.”

“Can’t help ya, mate. Do us a favour, yeah? Stop askin’.”

Pulling up his hood, the man turned and started away. His feet dragged upon the ground, eyes lowered down in the shame. Taking it as a challenge, the other grabbed him, forcing him to the ground. The hooded man cried out, struggling as his legs were pinned and arm forced behind his back. “ _Where is he? Who is Freya?”_ He bellowed.

“ _I don’t know!”_

There was a flash of movement and a crack, and the hooded figure lied still against the ground.

John stood, massaging his knuckles. If the man couldn’t give him anything, he’d give him a headache to remember later. Especially when he’d heard the man talking to another about Sherlock and a person called Freya.

Storming away, he pulled out his phone, waiting for it to ring.

 

 

“Sherlock….he’s not how he used to be, is he?”  The woman asked softly, sitting forwards, peering at the couple across from her.

“Well, that wasn’t really the question, Ms. Barnicot,” The man returned, resting his chin on his fist. “Now, if you could tell me if you’ve seen or heard anything, that’d be lovely.”

Ms. Barnicot sat back, pursing her lips. “I’ve not heard much, no,” She said honestly. “But shouldn’t---“

“Thank you, Ms. Barnicot, that would be all, then,” the army doctor returned as he stood, going to lead her outside, shutting the door firmly behind her despite her protests.

From across the room, his wife watched him, one hand resting on her rather large bump. “Well, that was rather rude.” With a grunt, she stood, going over to start making tea. “You could try being kind for once, John. It may help.”

“ _Five months,”_ John spat, pacing the living room, pointing a finger at her. “ _Five months_ we’ve been going at this and we’ve got nothing. Nothing! Not a word, not a hint, nothing but _Freya.”_

“And yelling at your pregnant wife is doing any good?”

John stilled, pausing to turn and stare at her before taking a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m being a cock. I just….” His voice faltered and he sank into his chair, scrubbing his face. “I’ve lost him, haven’t I? All I can think of is him being hurt and lost or injured…”

The kettle whistled with agreeance, and Mary quietly began to prepare their tea, the movements soothing. “Here,” she murmured, gently pushing it into his hands. “I know. We’ve done everything we can, John. Both you and Greg have been going none stop looking for him. I can’t speak for Mycroft, but he’s probably not rested since. You’re running yourself low, and that isn’t going to help anyone. He’ll turn up.”

The army doctor took a steadying breath, shutting his eyes for a moment. “Alright. I’m going to go to bed. I’m leaving early in the morning to go see Greg.” Pecking her good night, John disappeared down the hallway.

 

“John! You look like shite, mate,” Greg greeted, offering John a tired smile. “And you look like the hind end of a horse,” John returned, coming to stand beside him. “A restaurant? Why are we here?” He asked, looking around with a frown, though his eyes clouded when he realized what restaurant it was.

_"Sherlock?" A soft, gentle voice called. The man glanced up from where he was staring at his menu, lost in thought. His plush bee was clutched tightly in his hand (something that he had begun to use as his crutch in public), the head flopped to the side and arms spread in different directions._ _"I think he'll just have some chocolate milk." Mary provided, reaching over and gently patting his knee. Sherlock could feel eyes on him, and his entire face burned._

“We’ve been here with Sherlock before,” John murmured, lips thinning. Greg looked surprised, though said nothing, leading John inside. “We put the word out to be watching for Sherlock, and an anonymous person rang in to tell us to look here.” A smile spread across the silver haired man’s lips. “Look on the security video.” He pointed, and a smile appeared on John’s face, the first one in a long while.

Sherlock was sitting at the table, clutching a stuffed rabbit to his chest while two other people sat with them. John watched as Sherlock got flustered over ordering, getting nervous and unhappy as the woman there ordered for him. From the looks of it, something he didn’t like. Was that Freya?

“That’s her. Her, that’s Freya.” He said calmly, folding his arms and licking his lips.

Greg leaned forwards, peering at the screen as though it would make the letters appear. “You sure?”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” John responded. “We’re looking for her. From the looks of it, she’s in the homeless network. _That’s_ why they’re not telling us anything, she’s one of them!”

“Bloody hell,” The DI muttered. “Well, it’s more than we’ve got in months. Let’s go.”

 

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The sunlight was warm and welcome. It was like a fuzzy blanket, wrapped comfortably around him and on his face. Sherlock smiled, curling up in his bed. Everything was okay, it was better now. Snuggling Bee and Bunny John closer, he sleepily rubbed his eyes and yawned.

“Do I hear a sleepy bear?” A familiar voice sing-songed, and the bed dipped as it was sat on. Strong, gentle hands rested on his leg, rubbing it to wake him up. Sherlock grumbled, curling up further into the blankets and mumbling something inaudible.

A laugh bubbled out at the action, and the same hands prodded at his feet and sides, starting to tickle the dark haired man. “Oh, a _grumpy_ sleepy bear.” Sherlock followed her laughter, grinning and giggling. “Stop!” He protested, trying to escape the attack. “Look at the grumpy bear! It’s attacking!” Freya teased as Sherlock tried to tickle _her._ “I don’t think so, grumpy bear! No way!”

After several minutes, both Freya and Sherlock were hugging their sides and crying from the laughter. Wiping the tears from her eyes, the woman smiled. “Breakfast, then?”

 

When a full breakfast of sausages, bacon, pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries was finished, they went off to the park. They played there for nearly two hours before they went about lunch.

“Stay here, Sherlock. Don’t move, alright? I’ll be back.” Freya had instructed, telling the cab driver to wait. Sherlock did as he was told, but frowned when Freya came back with her shirt bulging. “Freya,” he told her gently. “Your shirt big.”  

Grinning, Freya began to pull out everything. “I know, Sherl. I got us dinner.”

 

Living with Freya was fun, for the parts that Sherlock remembered. They frequented the park and the toy store, though the once-detective never understood how Freya could buy so many things when she never worked. It didn’t make sense to him, and when he asked, she would only tell him that she had a “five-finger discount”. What that was, he had no idea. He remembered Mary and John talking about discounts at Tesco, and it sounded like they were a good thing. So he supposed it was alright, in that case. On Wednesdays they wore bits of pink (that was another thing he didn’t understand, either) and on Fridays they had picnics. Monday was Movie Monday, and Tuesdays were game days.  He always knew what day of the week it was, and he always was able to do what he wanted. There was schedule and order, and it was lovely.

For as much fun as it was, there were times when he wanted to go home. He’d be dressed and ready to go when Freya came, who immediately would begin to take off his coat and things. “You’re not leaving, Sherlock, don’t be silly,” she would say, though her voice would sound panicked. “You like it here, don’t you? You’re staying….” A fight would break out, with Sherlock crying and calling for John while Freya shouted at him. When she got too mad, she would hit. Sherlock would cry and scream, and Freya would tell him she had to, and it would be very, very not good.

When Freya hit, those were the times Sherlock wanted to go home the most. But Freya wouldn’t let him—She was his mother now, and she was a good mother. She would take good care of him.

He stayed with her for five months, and he had fun for what it was worth. But he wanted to go home.

 

It was Movie Monday, and it was a good thing too. Sherlock woke up feeling yucky, coughing up gross things (Mucus, Freya called it), and he was very, very cold. His body shivered with cold, though he was sweating and he skin was clammy and yucky. When Freya tried to wake him up for breakfast, he just cried and refused. Her hand traveled to his forehead and she said a very not good word. “You’re like a furnace, Sherl,” she murmured, placing a cool cloth on his forehead.

The cold cloth was not nice feeling, especially when he was already cold. “I want John,” he sobbed, trying to reach for the blankets to pull over his cold body. “John is gone,” Freya returned, pushing his hand away. “Lie down, baby. It’s alright, you’re just a bit sick.”

Hot soup really did wonders for warming up cold bodies. It felt good when it was eased to his lips, and he could feel its warmth travel throughout his body, something that soothed him to sleep.

When he woke up, he coughed and coughed so loud that he couldn’t hear anything Basil of Baker Street said in his movie. Freya had to rewind it so he could watch it again, though he fell asleep anyways.

It took him two weeks to get better. If you’d have asked him, he’d have said it was longer, and that John could have made him better much faster. While he was sick, all he could think of was John. John could make him better. John could make him not-sick and comfort him. Mary would cuddle him and rub his back while he coughed, and she would keep him warm and happy while John made him better. They would give him a warm baths and hugs, be gentle and wouldn’t make him cry. It was a Thursday when he decided he was going to go find John. John would be looking for him, and he would bring him home.

Freya was sleeping, and he waited until it was silent until he started to pull on his coat and scarf. Tucking Bunny John and Bee into his coat, he slipped on his shoes and began making his way out the door. Everything was still and quiet--- It was perfect, and relaxing.

The night was a bit cold, the wind blowing past him and ruffling his curls as he walked, though it only made him giggle. He was going home—he was going to see John and Mary. Everything was okay now. He just had to find a policeman and ask him to bring him to John.

As he walked he hummed, smiling and running his fingers over fences and things. It felt good, so good to be back. He didn’t really know where he was going, but if he walked long enough, he’d find _something_ familiar.

He was just through most of _Four Seasons_ by Vivaldi when he saw the flashing lights and yellow tape. Oh, yes. That was familiar. His pace picked up, and he quickly ducked under the tape and on to the scene. People were giving him odd looks, but he ignored them. “Hello?” He called, frowning as he was stopped by a man. “Hey, look, I don’t know what makes you think you can walk on to a scene like that—“ He was cut off as a familiar dark skinned face jogged up to them. “Dimmock, it’s okay, let him be. It’s Sherlock, Greg’s been—“

Not that he would have told John or Lestrade, but he’d never been so happy to see Sally in his life. So happy, in fact, that he tackled her in a hug.

“ _Unfh—“_ She gasped as the air was forced out of her lungs. “Sherlock,” She breathed, patting his back and watching in shock as he buried his face in her shoulder. “Sherlock, _where have you been?”_ The man didn’t answer, clutching her tighter. “I want John,” he whimpered. “I want to go home. Please.”

“Bloody hell, alright. But we’re meeting him at the hospital.”


	15. United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end, guys. It's been a great :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support and feedback. You all have been amazing. I cannot believe how much attention this got! I am so so happy you all enjoyed this. I may or may not have cried while I wrote this. (Just FYI) This is where it ends, and I thank you all for coming and being here with me!

Chapter Fourteen: United

In hindsight, he supposed everything happened for a reason. Everything and everyone had a certain part to play in the grand scheme of things. Whether you saved lives at war, through crime or through biscuits left on the kitchen table. People did something to make someone better. Greg had always said he was great man, and that he’d be might be a good one. He at least hoped he lived up to those words.

John had said after everything, he was the best man he’d ever known. The smartest, bravest man he’d ever known. When Sherlock had disagreed, telling the man that _John_ was the bravest man ever, the doctor only shook his head and held Sherlock’s hand a bit tighter.

When it had all started, the spiral towards the end, Sherlock hadn’t thought much of it. But really, he had to thank Sally. If she hadn’t brought him to the hospital in time, things could have gotten much worse. 

The nurse told him while he was curled up, one hand in Sally’s, that his head was swelling “like a little balloon”. John hadn’t gotten there yet, and when Sherlock started to cry, the poor woman didn’t know what to do. She stumbled over her words before she wiped away his tears, phoning John to tell him to hurry.

The army doctor arrived not long after, rushing in to hold Sherlock tightly. There was no pleasantries exchanged, no hellos or anything. Weak, scared arms reached out, and John moved himself in between them. For several pregnant moments no one spoke. Sherlock buried his face into John’s shoulder, hands knotted into the soft shirt, while the other man stroked his hair and rocked him. It wasn’t as though they didn’t know what to say; they both did. But every word they could have said to each other had already been said at one time in their lives. They knew each other’s mannerisms and patterns; they knew what the other wanted to say. Explanations would come later, and so would the rest of the world. For now it was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the famous duel. They were together again, untied until their last breath. To Sherlock, it seemed as though the world had paused, even for just a second, in those few moments. There were no doctors, no people or anything. Just them, and it was alright. It was perfect.

All too soon the world came back in a sudden blast of light and sound. Beeping from the machines, the doctor anxiously clearing his throat. John pulled away from Sherlock, though he still kept his hand in his. The warmth that had been so soothing and comforting….gone. Reality had taken it again. Rubbing his eyes, Sherlock stared at the ground as the situation was explained. _“There is heavy inflammation in his temporal lobe, which has spread partially into the parietal lobe.”_ It was all just fancy words and explanations, things John and Mary would understand, but Sherlock didn’t. “Like a bahloon, Jawn.” Sherlock provided quietly. “Very good, Sherlock,” Mary said gently, holding a small bundle in her arms.

What was Mary holding? It looked like a very big bundle of blankets, really. Nothing else. Seeing him staring, Mary smiled. “Sherlock? Would you like to meet your baby sister?” She asked softly.  Well, yes, he would very much like to meet her and hold her and snuggle her, but….wasn’t the baby in Mary’s tummy? Mary wasn’t ginormous anymore, but she had been when he had left. Had the baby come out when he was gone, then? Before he could answer, John was squeezing his hand to get his attention. “Sherlock?” He whispered, gently smoothing the curls from the man’s face. “Okay, you need to listen to me, alright? We’re going to try to make you better, but I need to be _brave_ for me, yeah?” He offered an encouraging smile. “Yes, I know you’re brave already. But I need you to be extra brave.”

Of course he would be brave. He was the bravest person alive. “They’re going to keep that funny thing in your hand, alright?” John had continued. “It’s going to give you medicine, and keep the pain away. But you might feel a bit strange.” He fixed his curls again. “We’re going to let that stay for a little bit, and then we’ll do some scans to check if your head is better, okay?” He offered a reassuring smile, glancing at Mary. “Here, why don’t you hold her, alright?” the woman offered, standing and going over to Sherlock. “We’ve both missed you so much.”

“I miss you too,” Sherlock returned, trying to position his arms like Mary’s. Then, once the baby was placed, he stared down at her. “She looks squishy, Mary.” He observed quietly. “Like a squashed, red potato.” Holding back laughter, John only smiled at the man. “She does look a bit like that, doesn’t she? Her name is Charlotte.” The detective didn’t even look his way, watching as the baby moved and shifted in his arms. It was so… _fascinating._ The baby was so small and so new, but look what it was doing. It was chewing on its fist and squirming, even making small sounds at him. How could such a small thing be so interesting?

Sherlock watched the baby for a long time. Neither parent said anything, keeping an eye on him to be sure he didn’t accidently hurt her, but everything seemed alright. Periodically, they’d ask if Sherlock didn’t want her, but he always said no. “She happee, Jawn. She ohtay.”  After about an hour and a half, baby Charlotte started to fuss. “Uh-oh.” Sherlock whispered, frowning at the baby. “I not hurt her, Jawn,” he said immediately. “I jus’ holdin’ her.” Smiling as he scooped the small baby up, John brought her over to Mary. “I know. You’re are very good at holding her, Sherlock.” Sighing quietly, he sat back on the edge of the bed. “It’s just time for her to eat, that’s all. She can’t talk, so she cries.”

Thinking this over, Sherlock nodded quietly. “That makes sense.” He rubbed his eyes, body starting to feel light. “Jawn?” He whispered, and the man turned towards him, hand on his wrist. “I feel….fluffy,” Sherlock answered, leaning back further into his pillows. “Can I have Bee, please?” Nodding, John reached for the favoured toy, watching as Sherlock pulled it to his chest. “I jus’ shuttin’ my eyes, Jawn…” he assured as he yawned, starting to drift off. “I feel like a cloud, Jawn. Or a sack of water.”

Sherlock slept a grand total of four hours. He would start to wake, though mostly to tell John a random fact he’d thought of, before John would tell him how smart he was, rub his back and offer him a drink, and Sherlock would sleep again. When he woke for good, it was around ten in the morning. John made him eat his breakfast (the _whole_ thing) before he could hold baby Charlotte again. The rest of the day he spent holding her, overlooking her changing and once, even her feeding. Nurses came in to check on him, though he didn’t give them the time of day. John and Mary did their best to keep Sherlock entertained from telly, to colouring, to reading, but about two o’clock in the afternoon, Sherlock had had enough.

The man had started to pick at the IV in his hand, with both Mary and John scolding him not to do so. After several, “ _Sherlock, enough. Don’t pick at it, it’s to make you better,”_ or “ _Sherlock, I just told you to stop. Why don’t we do something else?”_ or even, “ _Sherlock, stop it! Alright? Enough already!”_ Sherlock had stopped, but took to kicking his feet on the bed. Nothing would keep him entertained. Thankfully, the doctors returned. “We’re going to take you to get a scan, alright?” They informed the family. John immediately stood, thankful for the change, gently moving Charlotte so she could return to her mother. Sherlock started to protest, but Mary gently told him it was time for the baby to eat, and that she’d be ready for holding as soon as he got back. Still reluctant, Sherlock allowed John to take his hand and walk beside him to the room where they scanned his head.

It wasn’t all that scary, really. The detective just had to stay very very still, and the machine would woosh and whir around him, and he was finished. “Tha’ not scawee, Jawn. You’s wowwied foh nothin’,” He told him as they wheeled him back. John smiled and apologized for being silly for worrying, not having the heart to tell him that wasn’t what he was worried about. When they were back and Sherlock was holding Charlotte again and telling her about the ordeal, the doctors ushered John into the hall.

“It’s gone down,” they started with, “But not by much. The swelling has increased, and the medication and IV have barely done anything.” The doctor sighed. “We’re going to try oxygen therapy, to see if that will help.”

It took a while, but finally Sherlock was calmed and settled with a respirator over his mouth. As they were hooking it up, the detective coloured and placed bee stickers all over the machine. His reasoning was it made it “look less like a monstah, so it not scare babee.” Still, he wasn’t allowed to hold Charlotte with the machine on. Instead, John lied next to him with her, turning on _Jake and the Neve Land Pirates_ for him to watch. After a while, Sherlock began to frown at the screen, focusing hard on it. “Sherlock, sweetheart? Are you feeling alright?” Mary asked, nervously sitting forwards. Turning slowly, Sherlock frowned at her as well, as though he didn’t understand a word she said. He rubbed his ears, blinked a few times and then pushed John’s shoulder gently. “Answer Mary, Sherlock,” he returned. “You don’t always have to answer me. Is something wrong?”

Yes. Something was very, very, very wrong. He could see their mouths moving, he could hear them saying things, but….it didn’t make sense. He couldn’t understand what they were saying. Why couldn’t he understand what John was saying? What was wrong? What happened? Why?

Seeing Sherlock’s panic, John nodded to Mary, who took the baby and rang for a nurse. John set about trying to calm Sherlock down, starting to whisper to him it was alright, he’d be fine. Sherlock kept saying John’s name frantically, as though that would help anything. Soon a nurse came in to see what the problem was, but no matter how many questions she asked or how kind she was trying to be, Sherlock only panicked more. After a few moments, the nurse went to get the doctor.

By the time the doctor came, Sherlock had calmed somewhat. John was holding him, rocking him side to side and gently rubbing his back. The dark, curly head was tucked into the man’s shoulder, arms wound around his neck. The doctor came in and John held a finger up to his mouth, telling him to be quiet. Silently, Mary stood and walked with him into the hall to explain the situation.

The diagnosis was receptive aphasia. “People with receptive aphasia are unable to understand language in its written or spoken form, and even though they can speak with normal grammar, syntax, rate, and intonation, they cannot express themselves meaningfully using language. People with Wernicke’s aphasia are typically unaware of how they are speaking and do not realize it may lack meaning. From what it sounds like, the swelling has gone into the occipital lobe,” The doctor explained, looking sadly at the man. “So the oxygen therapy isn’t working, then,” Mary snapped, glaring at the doctor. “Give it some time,” he said quietly. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll move on to something else.”

For two days, John, Mary, Greg and Mrs. Hudson took turns comforting Sherlock. John was the best at it, and Sherlock far preferred him, but he was alright if it was someone else staying with him. They all learned not to talk, but to use small hand gestures instead. If Sherlock couldn’t understand speaking, they figured he could understand simply movement, or signs.  When they brought their fists together, similar to clapping, that would mean ‘more’. If they dusted their hands off, that meant ‘All done’, or if they open and shut their hand, that meant it was time to sleep. Gradually, Sherlock adopted the signs as a new way to speak. They gave him cards with pictures on them to help, and to help recognize certain words. Every day at breakfast, lunch and dinner, they would go through the cards, saying the names and actions.

After the two days, when Sherlock had made no progress, the doctor moved on to a new treatment. John fought with them on the treatment, but after they asked Sherlock about it and he agreed, they continued on with it. The hypothermia treatment left everyone nervous. Sherlock was constantly under watch, and it wasn’t long before Sherlock was begging to go home, to not want to be in the hospital any longer. To most people’s surprise, the hypothermia helped, better than anything else did. The swelling had gone down immensely, and the detective was nearly next to his normal self after the whole ordeal. It had taken a few days for him to get better from the battle with the cold, but after words, he was giggling and laughing again. It was a sound that everyone had missed.

Much to Sherlock’s delight, he was allowed to go home again. The whole way home he told John and Mary about how happy he was to be able to be able to sleep in his own bed, and how he was going to never leave it. He’d also have to apologize to all his toys and stuffed animals for being away so long, but John told him that they’d understand.

Mrs. Hudson brought them up dinner while Sherlock was playing with his train set, and they all had supper together. Well, except for Charlotte, though Sherlock had tried to insist she have some of Mrs. Hudson’s food. The landlady comforted him and said she wasn’t offended, the baby was too young to have any.

That night it stormed, and Sherlock sat on the sofa with John to watch it. Together they counted the beats between the lightening and the thunder, seeing how far away everything was. They made jokes and shared memories, and played a round of Cluedo and gold fish without anyone getting mad.

At the end of the day, John tucked Sherlock into bed with _all_ his stuffed animals; Sherlock couldn’t say no to any of them, especially after being away so long. The doctor kissed his forehead and they went through their normal good night routine. “Nigh’, Jawn.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Wove you.”

“I love you to the moon and back.”

“I wove you to the stars, Jawn.”

Smiling at the man, John could feel his chest get tight. “I know you do, Sher. I know.” He said softly. After Sherlock’s light was flicked off and he could hear the man sleeping peacefully, John went and sat on the sofa for a long time, silent tears running down his face. He hadn’t cried since he found out Sherlock wouldn’t be…Sherlock anymore. But now, after everything was said and done, he let the tears run down. The pain of him being gone so long, the fear of him dying. He’d almost lost the best part of himself; his Sherlock.

The morning came and went. They had pancakes for breakfast it was alright, things were going to be okay. It would be alright. Sherlock convinced John to take him to the park, where they played without interruption for nearly two hours. It would have been longer, but John had pulled the plug and brought him home for a nap.

It when Sherlock woke from his nap an hour early that concerned John. The man was complaining about not being able to sleep because his head hurt. When he walked, he struggled, bracing his head against the wall. Mary had gone to help him, but the man bent over, vomiting over the ground.

“Pack the bag, John,” She had said instantly, rubbing Sherlock’s back as he cried and easing him to the couch. “We need to take him to the hospital again.”

 Sherlock felt a rush of feelings that felt like it would drown him. He didn’t want to go back; he’d just gotten home! Why did they have to go back? Why was he sick again? Didn’t the doctors make him better? What was wrong with him?

The detective vomited three more times before they arrived at the hospital. It was clear by the time they got there what was wrong.

“The inflammation has returned, but much worse.” The doctor said softly. “Now his temporal lobe, cerebellum, occipital lobe and parietal lobe are all inflamed.” They offered treatments that might work, like a Ventriculostomy, or surgery, though nothing was guaranteed.

They went through with the ventriculostomy, and Sherlock spent three weeks recovering from it. For the first night after the procedure, nurses were constantly at his side and checking on him. He was chronically vomiting and getting headaches for the first couple days after the procedure. Everyone coddled to him, and when the vomiting stopped, he went for a scan.

It hadn’t helped much.

Whatever was going on, it was bad, and it was going to take Sherlock’s life.

The doctors told John and Mary there wasn’t much else they could do for him other than to keep him comfortable. So, that’s what they did.

Sherlock was put on painkillers and spent the rest of his life in the hospital, everyone coming to visit him. He informed John it was like a party, and that it was very nice of everyone to bring him flowers and toys to play with while he was here. They watched movies, played cluedo and gold fish, and the new games Mycroft had bought him called _Candyland_ and _Snakes and Ladders._

What surprised Sherlock the most, was that Mycroft never left anymore. He always was there. Sometimes he’d leave, but only because John would make him go home and sleep after a couple of days. He didn’t roll his eyes or say no when Sherlock asked him to play, and he read to him his favourite books (even if he’d already read them). Everyone around him seemed so….sad. It didn’t matter how many times he’d ask, they wouldn’t tell him why. Instead, they got him to do something else. It was strange.

 As days turned into weeks, Sherlock got progressively worse. His movements became sluggish and slow, and he began to struggle to see. He couldn’t speak anymore, and he struggled with the sign language. Mycroft got him a funny machine that spoke for him, and when it was put on him, he carefully informed them all he was not a robot. Bit by bit, pieces of him left. He couldn’t remember things anymore, and had to be reminded daily on who everyone was. He stopped eating; they’d changed his IV to accommodate.

Three months, and two days it took for Sherlock’s body to deteriorate enough for him to die. When the time had come, everyone was there. Sherlock smiled and laughed with them, holding John’s hand weakly. It didn’t matter he couldn’t understand them, it was enough to have them there. Laughing weakly, his smile grew as John bent down to kiss his forehead. He reached to cup his cheek, opening and shutting his hand, though it was a shaky, struggled movement. John gave a small nod, tears starting to flow down his cheeks. Sherlock tried to wipe them away, but John only gently set his hand down. He offered him the small plush bee, to which Sherlock relaxed at. “I love you.” The device beeped out at the doctor. “I love you to the moon and back, Sherlock.” John returned, voice trembling and heavy with tears. “I love you to the stars, John. Forever and ever.” Brushing Sherlock’s curls out of his face, John nodded. “Forever and ever, Sherlock.”

Smiling, the man’s eyes shut, body leaning into the doctor. Slowly his body sagged, going limp and cold. Monitors began to beep and alert them to the man’s departure. No one move, all staring at the small figure on the bed.

They say that it doesn’t matter how a man dies, but only how he lives. The act of dying is such a short amount of time that it hardly has any importance at all. What matters is that he is able to touch and change the lives of those around him; that he is able to live in their memory. Whether he be a good man or a bad man, he will be there beside them, living out the ideas he left behind.

Though if you were to go out on to the street and ask anyone whether Sherlock Holmes was a good man or a bad man, they would tell you he was neither. In fact, he was most brilliant man of all London and the greatest man of all.  

 

The End


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